Saying Nothing
by WhyAye
Summary: A dead body is found after a fire & the two detectives don't have many suspects. The distracting attentions of an unidentified woman who seems to have a crush on Hathaway aren't helping the investigation.  Rated T; but tell me if you think it's M.
1. Chapter 1

Now that the flashing lights are all gone, the dark grey Vauxhall is nearly invisible in the equally dark grey murk of an early morning in January, on a cordoned-off street in the southeast part of Oxford. Two men have been sitting in the car so long the windows are starting to fog up. The older of the two blows on his fingers to warm them and at last starts the engine. These two have been working together long enough to know what happens next. Words are not necessary. They will return to their office, begin their incident report, and wait to see if the post-mortem gives them any reason to think this is anything other than what it appears to be: accidental death resulting from an arson. The burned home had without doubt been vacant for some time, its rooms long empty of furniture or other belongings. The fire had been seen by a passerby and was contained before it spread much beyond the kitchen where it had apparently started. But the unfortunate victim had been in that very room and the fire had burnt his body: not completely, but beyond easy recognition.

The senior officer—Detective Inspector Robert Lewis—navigates the rutted snow of the close, focusing on getting the car successfully onto the cleared roadway. His partner—Detective Sergeant James Hathaway—is confident in Lewis's winter driving skills and thus is free to look out the car windows at the taped-off crime scene, somewhat obscured by the misted-over windows. And so it happens that, of the two, only he observes the young red-headed woman, dressed in high-heeled boots and a full-length fox coat, incongruous with the bleak building. She looks directly at the car—directly at _him_—and spreads open the coat, revealing a voluptuous and completely naked female body. Then she sparks a bright smile, closes her coat, turns, and walks away. Hathaway stares after her. He knows there's no point in asking Lewis if he saw her.

Hathaway shakes it off, deciding the event was so bizarre and remote that it possibly did not actually happen: the result of a hallucination or an over-active imagination, though he's never been known to have either sort of problem. He falls into a daydream, thinking of fox-fur coats. Vaguely, he hears Lewis ask him something . . . something about _fur?_ Hathaway replies in a dreamy voice. "_Yeah, I do_."

"_What?_" Lewis's sharp retort snaps him out of it. "Hathaway, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Sorry, what was your question? I was thinking of something else."

It's clear Lewis is wondering what that "something else" was for it to trigger the faraway tone in his sergeant's voice, but he doesn't ask. "I said, do you think the death by fire was accidental or intentional?"

"Well, the fire certainly looked intentionally set. I guess it depends on what Doctor Hobson finds. They guy could have been a drunk, sleeping it off out of the weather."

"Homeless, you mean?"

"Yeah, there's enough of that going around these days."

"Did you see his shoes, man? That was no homeless person."

Hathaway has to admit he had not noticed the shoes. In fact, he can barely recall any of the details of the crime scene. Lewis studies him, concerned.

"You sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine."

Lewis looks utterly disbelieving, but doesn't pursue the matter, saying nothing. Hathaway's thoughts stray far from the scene of the crime the rest of the way back to the office. Like Lewis, he says nothing.

* * *

Later, they sit working in their office, Lewis reviewing the report Hathaway has written. The phone on the Sergeant's desk rings, the number showing only, "Private."

"Detective Sergeant Hathaway."

"Hello there, James. I wonder if you liked what you saw this morning."

He is silent, trying to ascertain if he recognizes the smoky voice.

"I wonder if it made you hard. I like to think about you getting hard."

He reaches for the button to record the call, but the line goes dead. For a moment, he stares at the receiver in his hand before hanging it up. Then he notices Lewis, looking across the desk with his eyebrows raised.

"Wrong number, or . . .?"

"Yeah, I'd say."

Lewis's brows come down as one, pinched together in the middle. "You're not sure?"

Hathaway backpedals. "No, it was a wrong number. She didn't want to talk to me." He ineffectively hides the fact that he is flustered.

Lewis's eyes are knowing. "Ohhh. _She_. Say no more, Hathaway. I'll stop asking." He turns to his work, almost humming.

Hathaway exhales in frustration. _Dammit. Best to just let it be._ He knows Lewis peeks at him at least one more time—but without profit.

* * *

About an hour later, the phone rings again. This time, the number is familiar.

"Hello, Doctor Hobson. Post-mortem ready?"

The two detectives walk over to the mortuary. Lewis opens the door to the lab, welcoming the warmth. Hathaway is about to enter when he sees in his peripheral vision movement at the corner of the building. He pauses, peering more intently into the winter afternoon gloom. A flash of rusty red—fox fur—and white—breasts, belly, thigh—a wave and a smile. _Her again!_ And then she vanishes. For an instant, he considers pursuit. The lab door opens again.

"You coming, Hathaway, or what?"

Lewis's impatience breaks his concentration.

"Erm, _yes_, Sir." She's gone, anyway. Not much point in trying to follow.

* * *

Doctor Laura Hobson explains her findings and conclusions. Their victim was a fifty-three-year-old Asian male, in otherwise good health. The short version is simple and as they expected: death occurred at the time of the fire, around midnight; the body burnt after death by the flames.

Her findings dispel any thought that the unfortunate victim had been homeless: the scorched remains indicate his clothing was of quality, and the charred billfold held several notes. There is no indication that the man, Jay Sandee, was ill or intoxicated.

"So, death from smoke inhalation, Doctor?"

"Oh, I need to show you one more thing." Hobson sounds almost cheery. She peels back the sheet covering the body, and points to a place near the bottom of the ribcage. The torso here is incinerated, completely blackened.

"See this?"

Both men lean in to see; Hathaway reels back quickly, gagging as the smell hits him. He manages to make it to the sink, retching copiously. Lewis's gaze follows him, slightly amused, slightly pitying. Then he turns back.

"You were saying, Doctor?"

She, too, checks Hathaway. He is pale, leaning heavily over the sink, no longer heaving but still breathing hard and spitting now and again to clear his mouth. It is evident he won't be returning for a while.

"Can you see this here, like an incision?"

"Oh, yeah. God, how'd you notice that?"

Her eyes twinkle. "That's my job, Lewis. Admittedly, it's more apparent on the inside, where it penetrated his heart . . . _killing him_." She smiles in satisfaction. She has worked with Lewis long enough to know that this is exactly what he wants to hear.

"He was murdered!" He gazes at her with undisguised affection.

"Well, _I'd_ say he was killed by a long, thin, but stiff blade, very sharp, that caused his heart to stop when it penetrated. Calling it 'murder' is _your_ job, Inspector." She smiles, winningly.

He returns the smile, looking as though he could kiss her, takes her written report, and collects James. Thanking the doctor for her report, the two detectives head back to their office. Lewis notices that Hathaway checks all about as soon as they leave the lab. But Hathaway says nothing and so Lewis says nothing. They are both very good at saying nothing.

* * *

They know little about the victim—his name, facts from his identification, and whatever hints Doctor Hobson's report provides—but no more than that.

"Y'know, I think this was some sort of . . . what's the word? Assignation?"

Hathaway is surprised. "You mean he was meeting someone for a sexual liaison when he was killed? What makes you think that, Sir? Why not some more innocent meeting?"

Lewis's furrowed brow matches that of his sergeant. He is studying Sandee's wallet through the plastic bag that protects it. "Look at the indentation on the inside." Lewis flips the wallet to Hathaway.

James catches it easily and opens the wallet as well as he can. "This circular mark, you mean?"

"Yeah. What does that make you think of?"

James studies it, thinking. After a while, his expression shows he has the answer.

"He often carried a condom. So often, in fact, it's left a dent. But there was none in the wallet when he was found. So the most likely explanation is that he had used it so recently he hadn't yet had time to replace it."

Lewis grins. "We'll make a detective out of you yet!"

Hathaway continues. "But maybe the killer took it for his own purposes."

Lewis counters. "Who says the killer has to be a man?"

"Did Hobson's report say?"

"No. Let's ring her."

Hathaway wonders if Lewis doesn't have his own reasons for phoning the doctor, but he says nothing.

"Yeah, hi, Laura, one more question about Mister Sandee. Could a woman have slid that shiv into his ribs? Or would it have taken a man?"

She answers immediately. "Anyone with the weapon at hand and enough knowledge to put it between his ribs could have done it. Wouldn't have taken much strength at all. There was no indication he'd put up a struggle."

"Any evidence he'd had sex recently?"

"As you may recall, that part of him was badly burnt. So I can't tell you either way. But there were no textile fibres in the wound, so it's unlikely the blade went through any fabric. His shirt was probably unbuttoned."

"Ta, Pet. You're the best."

He rings off and faces Hathaway. "Either one, man or woman. So what do we know?"

Hathaway exhales. "Nothing. He was killed. That's all. No motive, no suspects."

Lewis rereads the post-mortem report. "Go 'round his flat, do a house-to-house and see if the neighbors think of anything." He sees Hathaway's resistant expression. "Get PCs to do it, man, I didn't mean _you_ had to do it all yerself. In fact, let's go through his place together."

* * *

Sandee's home is an ordinary terraced house in Iffley, not far from where the fire occurred. It is apparent he lived alone and was not as interested in spending money on his abode as he was in spending it on his wardrobe. The furniture is serviceable but cheap and there is nothing decorative or personal about the place.

"Doesn't feel much like home, does it?" Lewis views the front room, puzzled.

"Not everyone has your fondness for tchotchkes, Sir."

That earns Hathaway the expression he was aiming for. "Me _what?_"

"Knickknacks."

_Eyeroll._

They learn little more from their inquiries of the day. Sandee was relatively unknown among his neighbors. No outstanding debts; no unusual, recent credit-card purchases; no traffic violations. No known family. Very little clutter or other personal effects, and therefore, very few clues about his life. Hathaway orders telephone and other personal records, but until those are sent, the detectives are at a standstill, for the most part.

When at last they conclude there is little more productivity in the day, Lewis watches Hathaway pack up his things, put on his greatcoat and head out with a barely audible, "Bye." Something was on his mind today, Lewis knows, but whether it was the grotesquely burnt body or something else, he cannot be certain. And of course, he doesn't ask. Lewis stays behind to make some notes and to recheck what they've put on the incident board so far. He's in no hurry to go home, the takeaway places will be less crowded if he waits another hour.

* * *

Hathaway makes his way to his car with hopes that the roads are better now, seeing as how the ploughs must have been out for hours. He knows at least he will have to brush the day's dusting of snow off his windscreen.

But he notices several curious things about his car as he nears it in the car park. First, the snow has been brushed off the windscreen, windows, and lights. Second, there are peculiar footprints all around the car: a triangle, with a dot a few centimetres from the base of the triangle. _Just like the prints high-heeled boots would make_. Third, even though the doors are locked, there is a single red rose on the driver's seat. Tamping down his rising unease, James looks all around but sees nothing in the evening darkness. He drives home with all his senses straining at their maximum potential. He is utterly unable to relax despite the generous glass of wine he's poured himself, jumping at every sound: an icicle falling, a neighbor shoveling the walk, the tick of the heater. And he stays on heightened alert all evening until he at last falls into fitful sleep.

* * *

When Lewis approaches his car in the car park, he sees immediately that there is something anomalous about it. His car is surrounded by heaps of snow, as though every snowplough in the car park chose to pile its gathering around one certain grey Vauxhall.

"What th' bloody . . ." Since most of the other station employees have left by now, Lewis is forced to dig his car out himself. At least he keeps a shovel in his boot during the winter. _Bastards. Sorry I don't leave at four so you can plough your precious car park free of obstacles_. The fact that his curry is cold by the time he gets it home does not add any cheer, and he lies in bed in a sour mood for a good hour before sleep overtakes him.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, when Hathaway leaves his flat, he again finds his car cleared of snow and surrounded by bootprints. He finds another rose on the driver's seat. He's therefore in a rather good mood when he arrives at the station. Even though he finds the attention odd, it's clearly harmless and, in fact, quite beneficial to him.

Lewis, on the other hand, seems a bit grumpy when he arrives in the morning. But he volunteers nothing.

They write up their preliminary notes from the arson investigation (it has officially been declared "of suspicious origin, most likely intentionally set, with petrol as an accelerant"), interpreting and referencing Doctor Hobson's post-mortem report where necessary.

Lewis goes to ensure that the incident board is up-to-date and Hathaway peruses his notes. They really have nothing to go on in this case. The man had no enemies, no debts, no romantic interests as far as they can tell.

When the senior officer returns to the office, he stops inside the door without sitting down. His expression is one of resignation.

"Can we call this 'unsolved' so early in the case? I'm stumped."

Hathaway glances up from a report he's reading. "You give in too easily, Sir. You need to be tougher. Need to practice resistance. Resist your temptations." His meaning is multi-layered, and Lewis knows it.

"So, resist the temptation to call this case unsolvable or are you talking about resisting some other kind of temptation?"

James smirks. "It's too early to give up on the case, surely, Sir."

Lewis only gives him one of his _don't forget who's the boss here_ looks, but Hathaway's teasing sparks an idea.

"Mister Sandee didn't resist temptation, did he? Used his condom somewhere, I'd bet you fifty quid the killer didn't take it. But no one seems to think he had a girlfriend. What does that tell you?"

James puzzles at the new tack for a moment. "He saw a prostitute?"

Lewis nods. "That's what I'm thinking. I need to get down to Iffley and look up a few old friends. Maybe he's a regular with the streetworkers there." He puts on his coat. "You coming?"

Hathaway waves the report that is in front of him. "We just got the information on his employment: night-shift manager at Malmaison. I was planning to check that out."

"Okay, then. I'll see you back here later, I expect." He turns to shut down his computer.

At that moment, Hathaway's telephone rings: _Private_. He picks it up, tentatively. "Hello?"

"You're far too good for him, James. Leave him. Come be _my_ lover, instead. Inspector Lewis is too old for you, I'll show you the heat you deserve." Then—_click_—the line goes dead.

Hathaway can't help it, his eyes flick up to Lewis, who is unaware of the scrutiny, unaware that someone thinks he's insufficient as Hathaway's lover. James can't help but snort a little at the mental image of Lewis trying to stay warm, out in the snow wearing only a fur coat. _She is definitely hot_. The thought of her makes him a little lightheaded and he feels a somewhat unfamiliar, primal tingling below his belt.

"Something funny, Sergeant?"

Hathaway blanches with guilt. "Erm, it was only a joke from a friend. Kind of stupid, really, but it tickled me." He hastily turns and fiddles with his computer. Lewis scowls a little—_well, THAT was a big, fat lie_—but decides it's not worth pursuing. Yet.

* * *

It is close to four o'clock before they are both back in the office. Hathaway reports that Sandee worked the front desk of the upscale hotel on a shift from one o'clock in the morning to nine in the morning. He was an excellent worker, always punctual and without any disciplinary problems, always well-turned out, as was appropriate for his position. In fact, the head manager, Phil Dunnington, had wondered when Sandee missed two nights in a row without explanation, and had already decided to call the police if Sandee was a no-show again tonight.

"Dunnington said sometimes night-shift workers are troublesome, the nature of the hours tends to attract an odd lot, people showing up for work drunk, that sort of thing. But our man Sandee was a model employee." Hathaway tosses his notes onto his desk.

"Ah. He didn't come into work drunk because he was too busy for that, spending many an evening with ladies of the night down in Iffley. Rather well-known to them, he was. Paid fairly, never asked for anything kinky."

"Sex with a prostitute is inherently kinky, in my view, Sir."

Lewis rolls his eyes. "Well, he never asked for anything unusual, okay? _And_, he always provided his own condom."

"Did he have a regular time for these encounters?"

"Yep. Eleven o'clock. He'd spend about an hour, then go to work."

"Every night?"

"Naw, once or twice a week, sometimes more, sometimes less. The women I talked to are not too happy about losing his trade."

Hathaway curls his lip in distaste. "And I suppose this 'trade' took place in vacant buildings?"

"Sometimes. They're also not too happy about losing the place that burned as a trysting location."

"No suspects among the streetwalker workforce then? What about jealousies, did he favor one or ignore anybody?"

"Nothing like that anyone would admit to. And they seemed to be pretty truthful, as near as I could tell. There wasn't much traffic that night, anyway, too bloody cold."

Hathaway is somewhat amused. "Since when have you been so friendly with prostitutes, Sir? They're not exactly known for their honesty when coppers come to call." An insinuating grin.

Lewis sets his mouth in a line. "I've been a copper in this city for a long time, Sergeant, as you well know. I've always done me best to cultivate relationships where they might be useful in me work. I treat sources fairly and honestly, and I find I get treated the same in return. Alright?" He doesn't need to tell his junior officer not to be so cheeky. Lewis's voice alone conveys that with perfect sufficiency. The smile disappears.

The inspector continues his report. "Sandee met with a prostitute, Pauline Coe, in the house where his body was found, at eleven as usual. She left him thirty minutes later. Too cold to spend the full hour. She went directly home, several streets away. And, as usual, he had used a condom he took from his wallet. She didn't see anyone else on the street when she left, and wasn't there when it burned. No one else knew anything about that night."

"He could have angered a prostitute you didn't talk to today, couldn't he?" Hathaway's tone is much more respectful.

"It's a small world there, James. They all know each other. Nah, I think someone was following him, or found him out on the street just after Pauline left, killed him, and dragged his body back into the kitchen. Then lit the place on fire to hide the evidence."

"Why bother with the fire? His body might have lain in there for days without anyone finding it. What evidence did the fire hide that would have otherwise been there?"

Lewis exhales. "What is it we haven't found, that's what you're asking, isn't it? How can we know if we haven't found it? Maybe the fire was to make some kind of statement, not to hide evidence at all."

The two are silent a while. "Not exactly galloping to the finish on this one, are we, Sir?"

Lewis smiles nostalgically. "Y'know, every time I said that same thing to Morse, he'd tell me that's _exactly_ what we were doing." His smile turns rueful. "I'm sorry I don't have the confidence to give you that kind of response, Hathaway. Maybe it's time to pack it in for the day, eh? Maybe see if a pint will loosen a few brain cells? That's what Morse would do."

But they are _not_ free to go for a pint that evening, as it turns out. A call comes in just as they are shutting down their computers. Apparently, a man became overly vigorous in disciplining his wife and as a result she ran down to their local for help regarding her newly broken arm. The landlord, familiar with the couple, decided this was his chance to intervene and get the poor woman the outside help she never sought on her own.

Lewis and Hathaway dutifully attend to this, questioning the relevant witnesses when both husband and wife assert steadfastly that she broke her arm falling on ice. Hathaway heads up the door-to-door. He has two PCs checking with the neighbors and there are a couple more down at the pub. Hathaway is leaving that establishment, heading back to the couple's flat when, passing a narrow mews, his attention is caught by a flash of rusty orange.

It's _her_ and that amazing coat, about twenty metres away, down the narrow way. She again treats him to a glimpse of her lovely naked body, which he can see perfectly well, though her face is in shadow. Then she turns and disappears into a doorway. He starts to follow her but doesn't get very far before a hand grabs him by the arm.

"_Hathaway!_ What are ya doin', man? We've been lookin' all over for ya." Lewis's face shows his concern, and Hathaway reluctantly gives up the idea of pursuit. She's probably long gone, anyway. He mentally returns back to the domestic disturbance at hand, his mood somewhat blacker.

Eventually, they get the injured wife connected with Social Services and the husband secured in a cell after he at last confesses to beating his wife. Lewis sadly watches the custody officers take the husband away.

"Sir? You look as though you could use that pint now."

"I could do with something stronger than a pint after this, but I hate going out this late when the roads are so bad."

"Would a glass of wine do, Sir? I believe it's my turn to get the round and I recently acquired a lovely Australian Shiraz I think you'd like. Not too jammy. Far too expensive for me to drink it alone."

Lewis looks at his partner with a bit of wonder. He's heard of Shiraz—he's even certain he's had it before—but couldn't say whether it was "jammy" or "earthy" or had "chocolate notes" or a "mineral finish" or was "big on the nose" or any of those other ostentatious wine terms. If Hathaway thought he would like it, Hathaway was probably right, as he generally was about such things.

"Sounds perfect. We can finish up this report in the morning."

It turns out, of course, Lewis does like the wine, well enough to have two glasses before heading for home. Yet he hasn't gone very far before he sees flashing blue lights in his rearview mirror, and he pulls over to let the police car pass.

But it doesn't pass. Instead, it pulls in behind him, and a uniformed PC gets out and approaches the car, obviously without relish. The Inspector cranks down his window, recognizing the constable on sight.

"Pete, hey, what's up?"

"Sorry, Sir, we had a report that a car with your registration was driving erratically."

"_What?_ That's ridiculous."

"Sorry, Sir, if you could step out of the car a minute, this won't take long."

Outraged, Lewis nonetheless complies. He is _not_ drunk, there is nothing "erratic" about his driving. Even so, he finds considerable relief upon being told his blood alcohol content is below—barely—the legally allowed limit.

"Sorry, Sir, you can be on your way."

"No problem, Pete." Then, as an afterthought, "Hey, Pete? Any record of who called this in?"

The PC consults his notes. "It was an anonymous caller, Sir. Sorry."

Lewis shakes his head and gets back in the car. If Pete apologized any more, he'd probably break some kind of record.


	3. Chapter 3

Morning finds the two partners eyeing each other somewhat suspiciously. Hathaway is working on the report for the domestic incident and Lewis has little to do but wait. At last, the senior officer tries to open the conversation. In a somewhat exasperated voice, Lewis makes an admission.

"Y'know, Hathaway, I was pulled over for drink-driving last night after I left your place. Someone phoned in a complaint about m'driving. But I was driving fine."

"Sir, everyone stopped for drink-driving thinks they can drive capably. Were you ticketed?"

Lewis scowls huffily. "No, I wasn't ticketed. I wasn't over the limit. Someone was playing games with me, is all. It happened to Morse once." He concentrates. "Who would have known I'd been drinking at your place?"

Hathaway considers this for a moment. "Ah. You mean who, other than myself, which means since the question has an obvious answer, then the obvious answer must be me."

He's lost Lewis, but the older man continues to glare as though he expects his partner to supply the answer.

Hathaway stares at him. "It wasn't me! How could you think that?"

"Well who, then?"

"Maybe some citizen, concerned about your erratic driving." A bit snippy.

"Sergeant, there was nothing wrong with our driving!"

An awkward silence consumes the office. But Lewis's glare is faltering. He knows Hathaway is not the guilty party, and he fumbles a little, continuing. "And, erm . . . there was somethin' . . . somethin' weird yesterday morning. I found somethin' on me car seat. But the car was locked."

His tone and expression indicate a desire to make peace with his sergeant, and James picks up the proffered olive branch. "Something on your car seat, Sir?" He hazards a guess. "A rose?"

Lewis crinkles his brow. "A rose? Naw, nothin' like that, man." His eyes snap decisively onto James's. "A hatchet. With red paint on it, looked like blood."

In the surprised silence that follows, Lewis decides to attempt a bit more inquiry. "Why did you think a rose?"

Hathaway breaks eye contact. "I've had one on my car seat twice now—two nights ago and yesterday morning. And the snow's been brushed off the car windows."

Lewis snorts. "Nice. You get roses and snow clearing service and I get a hatchet and me car ploughed in." He tells Hathaway about having to shovel out his car.

Hathaway looks a bit guilty. "That's not all I've gotten." Lewis's eyebrows slowly rise as James confesses about the exhibitionist displays he's been given and the bootprints around his car.

"Bloody hell, Hathaway. Is all this connected?"

Before Hathaway can attempt an answer, a PC pops in the doorway with two brown envelopes. "Sergeant? Inspector, Sir? These were brought by private courier for you." He hands each man an envelope. "We passed 'em through postal screening. Nothing harmful in 'em, Sir."

After he goes, they turn to their envelopes, working to get them open, each man peeking at the other to gauge progress and reaction. Hathaway gets his open first, and dumps the contents onto his desk. "What th' . . .?"

Lewis stops working on his and goes over to Hathaway's desk, peering over his shoulder. The envelope held photographs, and Hathaway pushes them around on his desk with a pencil, careful not to touch them. Some show Hathaway posing provocatively, naked and looking very muscular and very well endowed, leaving nothing to the imagination.

"That's not me, by the way," he quickly volunteers. "Well, my head, obviously, but some kind of Photoshop job, this."

"No need to be embarrassed, Hathaway, you don't look half bad." Lewis smiles teasingly.

Other photos, clearly employing the same technique, depict Hathaway, again naked, engaging in various sexual acts with a shapely red-haired woman whose face never quite shows. A third set are actual photographs of Hathaway, taken as he went to his car or shot through the window of his flat as he relaxed on the sofa in his front room.

Lewis swallows, no longer smiling. "Dear God."

Hathaway studies the envelope in Lewis's hands. "Go on, then. Let's see how good she made _you_ look." He laughs nervously.

Lewis completes the task of opening the envelope and, as expected, photographs slide onto the desk. Like Hathaway's, Lewis's photos are mostly paste-up fantasies. But the technique is the only similarity. Lewis's face has been pasted onto photos of men being tortured, of maimed and dead bodies. There are real photographs of him, too, taken on the street and through his flat window. In each of these, a red "X" has been drawn across Lewis's face. One photograph shows the two of them sitting on Hathaway's sofa, drinking wine. It was taken, they both know, less than twelve hours earlier. Lewis's face has been completely obliterated with red ink.

He exhales sharply. "I don't think she likes me." There's an ironic humor in his voice. But it turns cold. "Get forensics on this lot, _now_."

Hathaway is surprised at the steel in he hears in Lewis's voice. "Sir, this is just a sort of sick joke, it's not a crime. We can't have forensics come dust these without a crime."

"It's _stalking_, Hathaway, and it bloody well _is_ a crime."

"You're assuming the same woman is doing all this. There's no evidence of that."

"Aw, come _on_, Sergeant. The peep shows, the attention to our cars, these photos—she's probably the one who shopped me for drink-driving last night, she obviously was watching us." He studies James shrewdly. "Is there anything else I don't know about, Sergeant?"

Hathaway's eyes flick over and away. His guilt is plain.

Lewis becomes more stern. "_What?_"

"She, erm . . . she rang me, Sir. Twice." Lewis's glare berates him soundly. He doesn't need words to chastise his sergeant, and under the lash of this one, withering look, Hathaway comes clean. "She called me once after she flashed me, and asked if it made me hard. Then she called me yesterday morning and told me I should dump you for her. Well, not exactly those words, but that was the implication."

Things click into place for Lewis. "Ah. Those two phone calls you lied to me about. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought it was harmless, just a prank, you know? And it was a little embarrassing, I'd have had to tell you about her flashing me, too." Hathaway pauses and gives Lewis an insubordinate look. "I'm not yet convinced this isn't harmless."

"Yeah, well, you're not the one getting hatchets on your car seat and 'x's through your photograph." Lewis's anger is growing.

"That's not an articulable threat, Sir." Increasing attitude.

The two men glare at each other for several moments, the eyes of the older man narrowing as he assesses Hathaway's defiance. Lewis is the first to break the standoff and take action, using a pencil to gather up the photographs and nudge them into their envelopes. "I'm sending these to forensics. And I'm making a formal complaint for stalking. We're not too proud to admit that your lovely redhead has us scared to bits, to be perfectly honest."

Hathaway snorts, but keeps his thoughts to himself. _You're not too proud to admit anything. "Proud" isn't even in your vocabulary_.

Lewis catches the attitude of his junior partner. "Sergeant, that's enough. You think she's smashers 'cos she lets you see her goods. If you had any sense that came from between your ears, instead of between your legs, you'd see that she's manipulating you, pure and simple."

Hathaway's hostility grows but he resists the bait and stays calm. "Only, _I'm_ not the one thinking with my viscera, Sir, _your_ reaction is coming straight from your bowels. Nothing proves her pranks are anything _criminal_. She hasn't made any threats. Why are you so afraid of her?" Then he smirks. "I think you're jealous that I'm getting all this lovely attention from a beautiful and very sexy woman. Or else you're afraid I'm going to dump you for her."

At this last comment, Lewis shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Does she really think that we're . . . y'know . . . _boyfriends?_ That's ridiculous!"

"She wouldn't be the first one to think so, Sir."

This is news to Lewis. "What? Who thinks so?"

"Calm down, Sir. It's only people who aren't well informed."

Lewis stares at his partner, exasperated. "I worked with Morse for fifteen years and no one ever thought anything funny was going on. What is it about you, man?"

Hathaway chuckles, glad the hostility from the earlier harsh words has dispelled. "You were married then, Sir. And from what I've heard, Chief Inspector Morse made no secret of his penchant for skirt. Whereas, now you're single and people tend to find me a bit more . . . ambiguous."

Lewis is clearly resentful. "So I have to suffer the backlash from your _ambiguity_?" He shakes his head, more to himself than to James. "I don't even know what that means."

Hathaway puts his hand on Lewis's arm and suppresses a grin at the way the older man flinches at his touch. "It's okay, Sir. We'll ignore the naysayers and carry on anyway, won't we?"

Lewis rolls his eyes and picks up the two envelopes, waving them. "Two words, Sergeant. Stalking. Evidence. That's all I have to say."

Hathaway leans back in his chair, frivolity gone. "Sir, wait. Please. Let me try to talk to her. She's called me before, she may call me again. If not, maybe I can somehow communicate with her."

"And do what, exactly?"

"Arrange to meet her. Find out what her intentions are. If it's all a misguided joke, making a formal complaint would be overreaction. Let me talk to her."

Lewis can see the sense in Hathaway's argument. He drums his fingers, considering. "Not without backup, you won't." And before Hathaway can speak, Lewis elaborates. "_Constables_, Hathaway, not me. She bloody well hates me."

James rolls his eyes. "They have to stay out of sight."

"Of course."

Hathaway knows he has no chance of talking Lewis out of assigning backup. "Fine. She may not even call." He is grumpier now.

Lewis makes an attempt to clear the air. "So can we get back to the case already? What do we know about Sandee's work colleagues?"

They spend the bulk of the day telephoning night-shift workers of Malmaison, in large part leaving messages to call and either speak with an officer or at least identify a good time for an interview. A few are available that afternoon, and the two detectives decide to interview these immediately.

As they head for the car, Hathaway finds himself checking around for a glimpse of fox fur. It's not until he's sitting in the passenger seat, waiting at a traffic light, when he looks up to discover what he seeks. The driver of the car next to theirs is a young red-haired woman, wearing huge, dark sunglasses and a fox fur coat. She smiles and kisses the air in Hathaway's direction, bares her right shoulder and breast, and drives swiftly away when the light changes. Her registration plate is obscured with dirty snow. Before James can say anything, Lewis completes the right-hand turn and the woman's car is lost from view.

Hathaway inhales through his nose. "Sir. She was driving that car that was next to us at the light. I couldn't get the number."

Lewis stares, open-mouthed. He knows immediately whom "she" is. "Why didn't you say something, man? I can't chase after her now, she'll be long gone. Not a distinctive car, I suppose?"

"Nope. Pretty ordinary, grey Vauxhall. Not unlike your own, Sir. Must be hundreds of them in Oxford alone."

Lewis says nothing, looking grim.

* * *

The interviews yield little. Sandee was a fair manager, and the four employees they talk to know little about the man. They all hope his replacement is as decent a chap as he was; they echo Dunnington's comment that night-shift employees tend to be an odd lot and a manager who is effective with such an assortment of employees is a bit of a rarity.

When they have completed the interviews scheduled for the afternoon, Lewis and Hathaway return to their office. Lewis makes the appropriate arrangements for backup whenever it is needed for Hathaway's meeting, if he manages to get one. At about four o'clock, the telephone on Hathaway's desk rings. _Private_. He glances up at Lewis and their eyes connect. Hathaway can see Lewis is genuinely concerned about this plan.

"This is Sergeant Hathaway." He nods at Lewis to indicate this is the call they have been waiting for. "Yeah, we got them. I'm a bit jealous that you're watching Inspector Lewis as much as you watch me. . . . No, he's no competition for you at all, are you joking? He doesn't even own a fur coat." James listens some more, then takes the key step. "Hey, look, Miss—I don't know your name, do I?" He pauses. "Well, I'd really like to get together with you. I like what I've seen so far and I like your sense of adventure. Is that possible, at all?"

Lewis can't help thinking that, even when he's trying to sound as though he's delivering a pick-up line, Hathaway comes across as a bit of a posh prat. But he realizes James is onto something and is making arrangements over the phone with her.

". . . Okay, I'll see you then. I'm very much looking forward to it. . . . Bye." The junior officer hangs up with a smug smile.

"Well, that's done. And I must admit, I'm rather looking forward to meeting her."

"'Her' being Miss . . .?"

"Vicki Focks."

"_Fox?_ Like her coat?"

"Eff-oh-see-kay-ess."

"Oh. Still." The reserve rings clear in his voice. "You didn't happen to record that, did you?"

Hathaway's mood crumbles a little. He hadn't thought to record it. _Why not?_ "Erm, no, I didn't. I suppose I was too focused on keeping her from hanging up."

Lewis's eyes widen in reproach. "You're not _thinking_, Hathaway. Not with your brain, at least. This entire plan gives me a definitely bad feeling."

"It'll be okay, Sir. I won't go into her place, and I'll be surrounded by coppers." He knows Lewis doesn't believe this is enough to guarantee his safety; uniform have lost him in the past, with nearly fatal results. James strains to offer reassurance. "Sir, it's not as though I'm going on a real date with her. It's a test to see whether she's joking or insane or such. That's all. This is our best option at this point. What else can we do? We can't hold her for anything."

The senior officer shakes off his trepidation as well as he can. "Yeah, you'll be fine. She's mad about you, after all, roses and everything. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised something like this finally happened." He half-smiles.

Hathaway cocks his head. "Meaning what?"

"Y'know." He looks away. "You're a catch, Hathaway, face it. You're young but not too young, serious but with a sense of humor, intelligent, employed, not incapacitated, not overweight . . . and I imagine most women would find your looks fair enough. I'm surprised women aren't ringing here all the time."

"I love you too, Sir."

Lewis scowls at him, as Hathaway knew he would, and changes the subject.

"So when is this 'date' with Miss Focks?"

"Tonight, as it turns out. In about . . ." he consults his wristwatch "four hours. She's as eager to meet me as I am her."

Lewis turns back to his computer, inscrutable. After a long time, he grunts. "You better be here tomorrow morning, is all I have to say."

Hathaway smiles to himself. Lewis has a remarkable way of communicating one thing by saying something else.

"I'll be careful. Shall I buzz you when the date is over tonight?"

The older man's face gives just a little. "Yeah, that'd be good. You can let me know if she plans to slash me tyres next or anythin' like that."

Hathaway snorts. He's not certain if Lewis wants to know that James has returned home safely or if he wants an immediate report on the night, but the sergeant cocks a crooked smile despite Lewis's cranky tone. He hasn't yet figured out exactly what their relationship is, and anyway, it seems to change fairly often. But whatever it is, it works pretty well for both of them, he knows that much.

They don't discuss the date any more. Lewis is curious about the arrangements but, predictably, does not ask. They continue to field callbacks from night-shift employees, setting up appointment times for the next morning when the workers come off their shift.

After another half hour, Lewis tells Hathaway to "bugger off and get ready for your big date already." They say perfunctory goodnights. Hathaway goes home, has a light meal and stares at his open wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear. Most of it is too stodgy for the image he hopes to convey. He selects black—trousers, shirt, jacket—and a deep purple tie. He showers, dresses, and ensures his hair is dry and exactly how he wants it. Ready now, he drives to the address she gave him, aware that he is being discreetly followed.


	4. Chapter 4

Lewis paces the floor at home, nearly stepping on his cat several times. He simply cannot sit still. He's nervous about Hathaway being out with this strange woman and he wants to vent about it to someone, but his main listening ear is the man about whom he needs to talk. _Alright, I'll call Hobson, she's a good ear, too_.

They arrange to meet at the White Horse, near enough so they both can walk. Lewis arrives first and orders two pints. He knows if he waits until Hobson arrives, she will order water with a slice of lime. He does not want to be the only one drinking, and she's too polite to turn down a beer already paid for and sitting in front of her.

She comes in shortly after he finds a quiet table away from the bar. He waves her over, and she takes off her coat and sits down, sipping long at her pint.

Wiping the foam from her top lip, she crinkles a smile at him. "So, what's on your mind, Robbie?"

"Who says anythin's on me mind? Maybe we only wanted to treat our favorite pathologist to a drink. I owe you for the cracking report on Sandee."

"Your notepad is clearly visible in your breast-pocket. So you've brought your work here with us. What is it?"

He smiles wryly. _She certainly can read me_. "Okay, I give." But he's not yet ready to approach the subject of James. "What I'm wondering is, why would someone burn the body? Would the fire have covered up something telling?"

She considers his question, sipping her beer thoughtfully. "Well, you asked me if Sandee had had sex. The fire erased that evidence. His front side was burned quite badly; I'd have to guess his body was placed intentionally to char that part of him. Any fingerprints, bruises . . . anything appearing on the skin of his chest, assuming his shirt was unbuttoned, was destroyed. Had the fire burned a little longer or a little hotter, the stab wound would itself have been obliterated and the true cause of death would have been much harder to find."

Lewis stares at his glass. No real answers there. "His clothes? What about his necktie?"

"Gone, except for the bit that wrapped around the back of his neck, under his shirt collar."

The inspector shakes his head slowly. "I dunno. We're hitting a lot of dead ends in this case."

Laura takes a long, slow swallow from her pint. "Where's James tonight?"

Lewis can't put his misgivings into words. "He's on a date with a woman who's been stalking us. I was ready to make a complaint but he convinced us to wait until he talks to her."

"_Stalking?_"

Lewis waves his hand in the air; he does not want to revisit the events of the past few days. Now that he has company, he finds that's enough, no longer feeling the need to carry on about Hathaway's plan.

But Laura's curiosity is piqued. "C'mon Robbie, don't be such a tease."

"It's nothin' probably. She rings him and flashes him. Smashing figure, apparently. I've never even seen her."

Laura studies him for some time, sipping deliberately. She knows he's holding back a lot. "Are you jealous?"

Lewis stares at her in amazement. "Of what, him dating a psycho? No, thank you. I prefer my woman to keep her goods to herself, y'know?"

Laura can't resist the tease. "Robbie, you don't have woman, goods or no goods, do you?"

He glances up sharply, a cross between reproach and concession. Then he groans softly, his eyes sorrowful. "Don't remind me."

Laura regrets having said the words.

* * *

It's a nice Cotswold stone cottage, out quite a way into the countryside, and snugged down under the blanket of snow that covers everything out here. She emerges before he can get out of the car and it is all he can do to scramble out and open the passenger-side door for her. She is dressed, of course, in her beautiful coat and her trademark boots. Hathaway cannot see what, if anything, she wears beneath that. He greets her with a nod—"Vicki, nice to meet you at last"—and, feeling very awkward, reaches for a handshake. But she takes control and busses him lightly—"James, my pleasure."

He puts the engine in gear as she watches him, coyly. Then she shifts a little. "Do you mind if I smoke?" His heart does a happy flip-flop.

They exchange little conversation on their way to the pub, where they have planned to share some drinks and maybe something sweet later. Hathaway is not nervous but feels a bit uncomfortable as he tries to size up his . . . _adversary? That can't be. Companion? Date._

They have a lovely conversation. She tells him she first saw him at a crime scene she happened upon, a year or so back.

"You were ever so in command, James. I recognize that Inspector Lewis is your senior officer, but it was clear _you_ were giving the orders. I fell head-over-heels for you."

"When was that?"

"I can't recall exactly. Someone was dead, I remember. Does that help?"

He exhales with frustration. "So how does that lead to you leaving roses on my car seat?"

She blushes furiously. "I wasn't certain about your relationship with Inspector Lewis. You seem much closer than the other Inspector-Sergeant teams I've seen. And you're both single men, so that left open a definite possibility that you were . . . a couple. I figured if I left those messages for you two, you know, the car seat things and all, that if there was something more than a regular boss-employee relationship, it would be drawn out."

"You can break into cars?"

She colors again. "Erm, yes. When I was growing up, my brothers showed me how. It can be useful."

"And how did you know where'd I be, so you could display your lovely body to me?"

She grins conspiratorially. "Police radio. Not hard to acquire if you have the right connections."

"Your brothers, again?"

She only winks.

She squeezes his arm, pressing her bosom against him. "I'm so sorry, James, if what I did was inappropriate. I couldn't think of any other way to approach you. And I _so_ wanted to approach you." She smiles up at him. Her expression is that of someone completely taken in.

"I have to be honest with you, James," She squares her shoulders. "I am totally in love with you, and for no reason other than I've seen you work and you seem like a good, honest, and _very_ handsome man."

Hathaway is not certain how to respond, but he squeezes her in reciprocation. Vicki is fascinating, James thinks. He has never met a woman like her. She's beautiful, for one thing; she glows when she talks to him; and she makes not a single grammatical error. Hathaway admits to himself that he may be smitten, despite his assertions to Lewis that this was merely a professional venture. Nonetheless, he's certain he's made his assessment of her objectively, and he detects no artifice or deception in what she says. She truly feels for him as she claims. She's brilliant, he decides, and he wants her. Very much. He is, after all, single, lonely, and—though he doesn't realize it—very vulnerable to the attentions of a woman.

When at last he kisses her goodnight outside her door, she lingers, angling her hips to contact his with some solidity. "Would you like to come in? I have a very nice VSOP I could give you."

"Not tonight, Vicki. Maybe we can meet again . . .?"

"We can, if you leave your chaperones at home. Don't look surprised. I knew they were trailing us the whole time. " She bends forward, nipping his earlobe, and whispers to him. "Lose them, James, and I'm all yours. Whatever you want to do." She darts her tongue into his ear. "I want to do everything with you." She presses her hand against the front of his trousers, and can feel that he is beginning to respond. Then she pushes him back away from her. "Good night, James Hathaway. I hope to hear from you soon."

She disappears quickly into her cottage, leaving Hathaway standing next to his car, semi-hard without hope of resolution. With a groan, he gets in and heads back to the City.

* * *

A few minutes before two in the morning, Lewis's phone rings. It takes him some time before he surfaces out of sleep enough to answer.

"Yeah?" His voice is deep, gravelly. He is not at all awake.

"Sir? It's Hathaway."

"Ungh . . . Hathaway? What is it?"

"You asked me to call after my date with Vicki, Sir, remember? I just got home."

"Yeah . . . a'course." Hathaway can tell he does _not_ remember.

A pause.

"How'd it go?" Lewis is waking up.

"It. Was. Smashing."

Long silence. James thinks Lewis has fallen back asleep. "Sir?"

"I'm right here, Hathaway. I'm trying to gauge your tone." Another pause. "She removed your brain with her tongue or some such thing, didn't she?"

"_No_." Highly defensive. And a bit shocked that his guv can conceive of a woman having such a talented tongue. "She _excited_ my brain, Sir. She's wonderful. She's intelligent and funny and sexy and I can't wait to see her again."

Another long silence. "Did you fuck her?"

Hathaway's balance is momentarily shaken by the inspector's choice of words. In fact, James is certain he's never heard Lewis use the F-word before. He regroups in light of the knowledge that this has to either be a deliberate strategy, intended to shock him, or an indicator of serious jealousy, intended to cheapen James's experience with her.

"Sir, I don't know why you're using such uncharacteristically offensive language. No, I did not attempt to have sexual relations with her, although I would not have been averse to the idea." He moves to affirmatively take the offensive. "I suspect even _your_ cold heart would have been heated to the point of sexual desire, had you been in my shoes. Sir."

Lewis is wise enough—and tolerant enough—to swallow all he is fed, regurgitating none of it. He asked for it, after all. Instead, he speaks quietly, his voice normalized by now. "So, nothing suspicious turned up and you're seeing her again when?"

"Night after next."

The inspector thinks for a while. "And her issue with me is what, exactly?"

"You barely came up in conversation, Sir. I'd say she's playing with you. Doesn't think seriously about you at all."

Lewis recognizes that this was intended as a wind-up, and so he is mostly able to ignore the unexpected jab he feels. "Well, two young people, out on a first date, thinking only about each other. That's how it should be, eh?"

Hathaway contemplates his boss's words, trying to sound out the seeds of dishonesty. "You don't really think that, Sir."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Envy." Hathaway knows he's purposely trying to get under Lewis's skin, but he can't stop himself.

"_Envy_, what envy? That you're arse-over-teakettle for her? Despite whatever people may think, I'm not interested in you romantically. And _her!_ Bloody hell, I expect she'd knock me out in round one, wouldn't she? So I'm not envious of you, either."

_Liar_, Hathaway thinks, uncharitably. Nothing more is said for a while.

"Hathaway?" Lewis is using his high-pitched voice now, the one that he uses when he's concerned for his sergeant's welfare.

James does not respond.

"Look, man, I'm happy that you had a nice time with her. I'm glad you have another date set up, and it looks like something is happening for you. Maybe I _am_ jealous that you found this beautiful woman, and can't admit it to m'self. Mostly, I'm relieved she's not a lunatic and you're home safe. But we've got work to do tomorrow. Can we talk about this more in the morning?"

Hathaway ponders the request, at last deciding it is the best course.

"Goodnight, Sir."

A long moment.

"Hathaway?"

"Sir?"

"I'll see you at the office." Toneless. The line goes dead.

Hathaway stares at the handset. _Meaning what, exactly?_


	5. Chapter 5

The following morning, the two detectives are getting along rather amiably. Lewis is intentionally trying to be nice about Hathaway's date. His efforts are obvious to his partner, but Hathaway would rather have him like this than intentionally provocative, as he had been at two in the morning.

"Hathaway, can you be more helpful in explaining why she did these absurd acts? And how did she get into our cars?"

The younger man takes a deep breath, hoping Lewis truly harbors no envy, for it is bound to be stirred up if he does.

"She has a serious crush on me, one that makes her act a bit irrationally. She said she would have done anything to meet me. And her brothers taught her how to break into a car. Lots of people know how, you know. She's promised she'll stop now that she can call me directly."

"And you're perfectly willing to feed this crush?"

"Yep."

"Why threaten me?"

"It was as I suspected, Sir. She wasn't certain what our relationship is, and she thought if there were . . . _personal_ feelings between you and me, her threats to you would bring that out. Again, not rational, but perhaps understandable."

Lewis is not prone to concur in the latter assessment, but he says nothing. It disturbs him that his relationship with Hathaway is perceived by others as being something more than the partnership it is. Yet, he also recognizes that there _are_ personal feelings between the two detectives: trust, mutual protection, and a concern for each other's mental state they cover up with teasing and banter. He cannot think of what to say in response, and the office becomes silent as the two turn to their computers with over-intense interest. Lewis does not work, however. His thoughts are taken up with trying to sort out what he would call this not-quite-father-son, not-quite-brothers, not-quite-workmates, and definitely-not-employer-employee relationship he has with his young sergeant. He can only reject all the pigeonholes he knows, unable to find one that fits.

The bulk of the day will be consumed in talking with Sandee's fellow night-shift workers and sifting through his work area. They arrive at Malmaison shortly before the shift is due to end.

As Hathaway checks the list of employees against those actually present, Lewis has a word with Dunnington, who is taking over Sandee's duties until he can assign a replacement.

"Isn't this an awful lot of people to be working at night while the guests are in their rooms?" Lewis sounds merely curious.

Dunnington explains that they're mostly janitorial staff, cleaning the common areas and the kitchen which are too busy to clean during daytime or evening hours. Some of the night-shift workers on the list are not present this morning; two are part-time, Tory Reynard and Ralph Austin, and Dunnington states that they will be in for work that night. One, John McDonald, had the night off. He, too, will be in later. Harriet Stone called in too sick to work, he's not certain if she'll be in to work that night. And one, Harry Davidson, simply did not show up for work.

"Bit of trouble, Davidson."

"Trouble?" Lewis cocks his head.

"Disciplinary issues, according to Sandee's notes. Lateness, absences, insubordination, unsatisfactory work if he's not in the mood to do it correctly."

"And he manages to keep his job?"

"Inspector, it's not all that easy to keep capable night-shift staff. None of his transgressions were particularly serious. Whether Sandee was considering sacking him I couldn't say, he didn't keep notes on that."

Lewis glances at Hathaway in alarm. "Notes? Sergeant, didn't you tell Mister Dunnington not to touch Sandee's desk?"

Dunnington interjects before James has a chance to defend himself. "Not to worry, Inspector, I'm talking about his computerized notes, which I can access in read-only form from my own master account. I haven't changed anything, but I did need to check the work schedule and other immediate matters." He smiles genially. James breathes a silent sigh of relief.

While Hathaway begins interviewing the night staff, Lewis pokes through the papers and things on Sandee's desk. There are drawers of files, too; blank forms, completed forms, personnel records for the current year, purchase orders pending and completed, and other things, all appearing equally mundane and insignificant.

On the top of Sandee's desk, slipped under the computer keyboard, is a single, blank termination form. All the others are in a file drawer_. Was he about to use this one? And if so, regarding whom?_

Not all the workers can stay for interviews after their shifts. The two detectives talk one-on-one with as many as they can. When there is no one left to interview, they head back to the office, each mentally sorting through his notes as they negotiate the icy patches still lingering on the city sidewalks.

Comparing notes, they soon find that the night shift divides into three types of employees: those who were absent; those who had nothing useful to add to the total sum of information thus far gleaned; and those who commented on the hostility between Davidson and Sandee. The employees in the second group had been specifically asked if they were aware of any difficulties or friction between Sandee and anyone else, so Lewis and Hathaway conclude that problems with Davidson only cropped up on occasion.

"We need to talk to this Davidson. Call him again and leave another message, okay?"

Hathaway does, but the message is not returned that afternoon.

At the end of the day, Lewis is studying the list of employees with whom they have not yet spoken. His brow furrows in thought. "Tory Reynard . . . Why does that name ring a distant bell?"

Hathaway shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head at the same time. "It doesn't do so for me, Sir."

"Tickle that keyboard, why don't you? See if the computer's memory is better than mine."

Hathaway taps at the keys a moment, reads the screen, taps some more. Then he looks up, surprised.

"There was a Victoria Reynard who used to be a part-time employee here, Sir. Janitorial staff. Sacked in January 2009 for nicking police property. The property was recovered and charges weren't filed, but she lost her job."

"Ah, yeah, I remember. I was coming in early one morning for something, saw a police radio on the seat of a car in the car park. Reported it. I don't think I ever mentioned it to you, didn't seem important. Later, I got the write-up of the incident, and that was the name of the person they caught. I can't say I ever knew who she was, though. Think it's the same person? A bit of an unusual name."

Hathaway is silent a while. "'Reynard', Sir. That's 'fox' to a crossword mind." The coincidence—if it is a coincidence—is troubling to him.

Lewis cocks his head, narrowing his eyes and not smiling. "You mean, Tory Reynard, same as Victoria Reynard, same as Vicki Focks, your fangirl?"

Hathaway firms his lips into a line, saying nothing.

Lewis shakes his head. "Well, that would be seriously weird, wouldn't it?" He thinks a moment. "Does Vicki work at Malmaison?"

Hathaway's eyes widen with relief. "No, she told me she's a writer. Some kind of online e-journal, I didn't press her for details." He grins nervously, too broadly, his fears alleviated. His normal heart-rate re-established, he turns serious. "Sir, despite whatever misgivings you may have about my objectivity on that date, it's my personal belief that she was completely honest last night regarding her feelings toward me. I sensed nothing sinister, nothing duplicitous, nothing purposely vexatious regarding her intentions."

Lewis bites his tongue to stop himself commenting on Hathaway's choice of words. "Okay, I believe you. She's the real thing—why not come out and say it, man?" He grins when Hathaway gets his implicit point.

"Right, Sir."

Hathaway has to clean the snow off his own car that night.


	6. Chapter 6

By eight o'clock in the morning, Lewis is headed to Malmaison himself to try to catch the remaining workers they missed the day before. Hathaway has stayed behind to update the incident board and independently research other angles. Having missed only a few employees the day before, there is no need for them both to take up the morning conducting basic interviews. And Lewis is back at the office shortly after eleven. He settles down in his chair and pulls out his notes.

"Any luck with the interviews?" Hathaway sounds hopeful.

Lewis taps his palm with his pen. "Ralph Austin is a valet parker, knows little about what goes on in the Big House, but had no gripe about Sandee."

"_Bad House_, I should think is a more accurate translation."

Lewis checks at the interruption, his eyes flick to Hathaway. _Cheeky sod_. He doesn't need to say it aloud, and he continues with his narrative.

"Harriet Stone has heard Davidson can be a problem, says she thinks he's been warned a few times, but she doesn't mind him personally. Who she _does_ have a complaint about is Tory Reynard. Apparently, Miss Reynard skimps on her hoovering duties in order to make time for gentlemen guests who are . . . _lonely_, shall we say? And willing to pay for her company."

"She's a sex worker on the side?"

"Not just on the side, but on work time. Stone is angry that her reports to management seem to fall on deaf ears."

Hathaway is silent, but it is apparent the gears of his brain are whirring. "Is it only the guests, or did Sandee perhaps get his share as well? He liked that sort of woman, and if he was ignoring Reynard's misdeeds, maybe it was because he'd be implicated as well."

"I had the same thought, but there's no evidence anyone thought Sandee was dipping his wick during work hours. He'd scarcely have had time. And why pay for it down in Iffley if you're getting it at work? _And,_ I checked with Dunnington; according to him, Sandee intended to do something about Reynard but hadn't said what. And now we'll never know."

"What does Reynard say?"

"Unfortunately, I missed her. She clocked out fifteen minutes early and had gone before I arrived. I've left her a message to get back to me."

"Giving you an intentional miss, maybe? What if she was the one Sandee was about to sack?"

"Without issuing any warnings? Not the standard procedure. And she wouldn't have known I was coming in for interviews, would she?" The senior officer's mien changes abruptly, becoming more animated and less contemplative. "How'd your morning go?"

Hathaway pulls out his notes and scans them, clicking his pen a few times. "I checked up on Davidson. A bit of petty form: larceny, kerb crawling, loitering, drunk and disorderly, that sort of thing. Cautions, in the main, one sixty-day stint in the nick for malicious property damage." More pen clicks. "Employment record is a bit spotty. With nearly every arrest he changed jobs and with nearly every job change, his wage decreased. At one point he was sous-chef at Gee's."

Lewis's eyes are sad. "Now his special job is cleaning the kitchen after all of Malmaison's sous-chefs have gone home."

Hathaway cuts in. "Sous-_chef_, Sir. Singular. There's only one sous-chef in a kitchen."

Lewis rolls his eyes. "Thank you, Sergeant." But his expression brightens. "I learned something else, though, speaking of chefs."

Hathaway cocks his head with interest. "Oh?"

Lewis hands Hathaway a copy of a lost property report describing kitchen equipment. "I found this in Sandee's paperwork. It's from Jack Han, the fish chef—"

"_Poissonnier._" Hathaway interrupts.

Lewis glowers a little. "—reporting two knives discovered missing yesterday: an oyster shucker and a takohiki."

Hathaway's brow wrinkles at the last word. "Sorry? A _taco-what_?" It is clear Hathaway is unfamiliar with the word.

Lewis is smugly pleased to see he knows something Hathaway does not. "Takohiki. Aw, c'mon, Hathaway, even I know that. It's a long, thin Japanese knife used in preparing octopus."

Hathaway stares, speechless.

Lewis continues. "So I talked to Han about it. He couldn't be certain when the knives had disappeared. It's not octopus or oyster season, y'know. So they haven't been used lately. But they did inventory at the end of the year and both knives were there then."

"Why on earth do you know that word?" Hathaway has to know.

Lewis grins at the desired response. "Morse and his crosswords." He makes no attempt to conceal his smugness. "It would fit perfectly as the murder weapon used on Sandee. _And_ Davidson was assigned to clean the kitchen, had been since the beginning of the month."

The younger man absorbs all this. After a time, he stands up, animated. "Let's put this up on the board and see how it looks." They do so and, when they are done, they stand back and look it all over.

"Davidson is the prime suspect, I take it?" Both men turn in surprise, neither having heard the approach of their Chief Superintendent, Jean Innocent.

"Yeah, I believe so, Ma'am. Record of larceny; access to a knife that could have been the murder weapon that's gone missing; and motive if Sandee was about to give him the heave-ho."

Innocent considers all this. "Why would he have killed Sandee down in Iffley?"

"Davidson lives in Cowley, not far from where the body was found."

"Any other suspects?"

"Well, there's a charwoman we haven't yet been able to speak with. Everything about her is pretty much speculation at this point."

Innocent studies Lewis appreciatively. "What is this, Lewis? No dons, no lords, no public figures? No wonder this case is giving you fits."

He shifts his weight to his back foot, preparing to go on the defensive, before he sees her crooked smile. _Ah. A wind-up_.

"Yes, Ma'am. No wonder." Resigned.

They decide they need to talk to Davidson, and go to his home in Cowley, stopping at a Japanese grocery along the way to purchase a similar takohiki. Davidson's semi is run-down, rubbish strewing the front pavement, stained and torn curtains hanging in the windows.

He answers the door when they call, but frowns at the warrant cards they show him. He weaves a bit and his words are slurred. Lewis and Hathaway catch each other's eye. Words are not needed.

"We'd like to ask you a few questions about your employment at Malmaison and your supervisor there, Mister Jay Sandee?"

"_Sandee!_ That hypocritical bastard!" But he makes way and allows the two detectives into his rather disorderly and malodorous abode. He does not offer them tea, nor does he offer to share the cheap bottle of vodka from which he directly drinks.

"He's always threatening to sack me for stupid little things. It's all so much hot air but he acts as though he has all this bloody power and I'm some kind of worm. I never do anything worth being sacked over."

"Skipping two nights' work without being excused isn't grounds for termination?"

"Nah. I already got my work done for the rest of the week. How many times can ya clean the bleedin' kitchen, anyway?"

Hathaway tries a new approach. "Mister Davidson, do you recognize this?" With a bit of a flourish, James produces the newly-purchased takohiki. Sandee's eyes grow large.

"Oh, yeah, I recognize that 'un." The two detectives stare expectantly. "Han, he uses that for sushi. Won't let anyone touch his precious bloody fish knives. I noticed a couple were gone when I cleaned the place last, didn't dare say anything, or they'd have blamed me." Then, muttering under his breath, "Fuckin' gook, I'd like to shove his bloody fish knives right up his rice-shittin' arse. Always acting so goddamned superior."

Lewis's and Hathaway's eyes again make brief, but significant, contact. They are exactly on the same page.

"When was that, Mister Davidson? When did you notice the knives were missing?"

"Had to be on the weekend, so maybe six days ago? Seven? I lose count sometimes."

Lewis plays good cop. "You used to hold a rather important chef's position yourself, didn't you? Much higher than Mister Han's position of . . . what do they call it? _Poissonnier_?"

"We allus jus' call it 'Fish Chef' at Malmaison."

Lewis shoots a scathing glance at Hathaway.

"Yeah, I was second in command at Gee's. In line for a sweet spot at the Randolph til your lot nicked me for peein' in the park or summat, ya bastards." He drinks deeply from the bottle in his clutches.

Hathaway cues in on his role. "Did you take Han's knives, Harry? Maybe you wanted to get him in trouble for having misplaced hotel equipment."

Davidson swears at Hathaway. It's clear he likes neither the detective nor the direction his questions are taking. "Is that what you think, you pompous sod? Well, you don't know everything. I didn't take any knives. Is this all about a couple of missing knives? Don't you people have any _real_ crime to investigate?"

The sergeant continues to drill. "Well, who did take them, then? An oyster shucker and one of these octopus knives have disappeared. We believe one of them may have been used to murder Jay Sandee."

"Sandee, murdered? Bloody hell." His eyes lose focus for a moment. "I tell ya, I took nothin'. Don't know nothin' about Sandee."

"You expect us to believe that? You hated him, that's obvious enough. You admitted it yourself. You don't seem to care much for foreigners, do you?"

Davidson is on more comfortable ground with this line of questioning. "That's right, I don't. They come here, refuse to learn our English language, refuse to eat our English food, refuse to learn our English ways. Han, Sandee, the lot of them. They can all go to hell."

"Did you kill him?"

This full-frontal assault throws Davidson. He chokes, a spray of vodka and spittle flying from his mouth. "Fuck, _no_, I didn't kill 'im. I'm not that stupid. I didn't even know he was dead. I hated him but we had reached a kind of understanding. He let me do things my own way."

"Why would he do that?"

"I set him up with whores in Iffley. And other places."

Hathaway continues, his tone intentionally supercilious. "So it was a mutually beneficial relationship?"

Davidson is lost at this point. "Uh, yeah." He drains the vodka.

Lewis takes a breath. "You mind if we have a little look around? Do you have a garden shed, Mister Davidson?"

He gestures vaguely toward the back door. "Sure, suit yourselves. I'm just going to . . ." He waves the empty vodka bottle.

The two poke around in the kitchen, checking through the cutlery in particular. Nothing catches their attention; there is neither a takohiki nor another knife that fits Hobson's description of the murder weapon. Moving out to the garden shed proves somewhat more profitable, however. They find there three empty petrol cans, all of which still smell of petrol. Yet the shed contains no petrol-powered garden tools.

"Mister Davidson, I noticed there were three empty petrol cans in your shed. What do you use so much petrol for, anyway?"

Davidson casts around, in a panic. His vodka-befuddled brain knows he's in trouble but is unable to take constructive steps to remedy that.

"I . . . uh . . . helped out a friend whose car ran out and he was stranded."

"And can we have your friend's name so we can verify your story?"

He's breathing heavily now. "I don't know it. He's really more of an acquaintance. Someone I hoped to get in good with. A business deal. He won't appreciate me givin' his name to the coppers."

Once again, the two partners make eye contact over the suspect's head. It's all the communication they need. Lewis lets Hathaway take the lead in cautioning and arresting Harry Davidson on suspicion of murdering Jay Sandee.


	7. Chapter 7

They've spent over an hour with Davidson in the interview room, but with very little to show for it. The man has resisted answering any of Hathaway's questions, which so far have been confrontational and accusatory. Lewis takes a deep breath. Hathaway knows this is his signal that control will shift to the inspector.

"Look, Harry . . . We're short on viable suspects here, and you happen to be at the top of our list. If you can give me any reason to look in some other direction, I'll be happy to do so. But from where I'm standing, you're the one who has petrol in his shed, access to the stolen knives, and a serious dislike of Sandee as your boss and as a foreigner. You're not even very convincing in your claim that you didn't know he was dead, it's been all over the news."

"I don't get the paper and I don't have a telly, in case you didn't notice. I've been home drinking for the last several days, haven't gone out at all."

He studies Lewis. His sobriety is returning now that he's been separated from his vodka bottle for some time. "You might ask John Marks. He'd be happy to see Sandee killed, they were dead even for the guv'nor's job."

Lewis cocks his head. "Explain."

"Dunnington's retiring in April. There's two blokes fightin' for the appointment to replace him: Sandee and Marks. Lots of dirty tricks and politics in that runoff, I can tell you."

"Thank you, Mister Davidson. We'll see what we can find out about that. Don't go anywhere, alright?"

This last comment is superfluous; Davidson is still in custody. The two detectives take a break from the interview, Hathaway heading out for a cigarette and Lewis going back to the office to update the incident board and give Dunnington a call. As he is writing up the notes, DCS Innocent comes over to see what he is adding.

"You're only holding him? Why not charge him?"

Lewis glances up, startled at the interruption. "Ah, no, Ma'am. I'm not comfortable charging him yet. Right now he's our strongest suspect but it's a weak case. Not enough to stick. We're getting there, but I don't really think he's our man."

Innocent frowns. "Don't ignore a perfectly good suspect you have in hand for one you haven't even identified yet, Inspector."

He rolls his eyes at her departing back.

When Lewis phones, Dunnington confirms Davidson's statement about the two men who were competing for his position. So Lewis and Hathaway are soon once again at Malmaison, in an office with John Marks.

"What d'you think your odds were, of comin' out on top in this duel, had Jay Sandee not met an untimely end?" Lewis is playing the amiable Geordie copper, in rather stark contrast to Marks's decidedly RP English.

It is only because of his deeply engrained manners that Marks directs his answer to the man who asked the question, rather than to the one he believes would be better suited to be in charge.

"I really couldn't say, Inspector. It would depend in part on the future the board of directors sees for Malmaison, whether they want it to remain a top-ranked, world-class establishment, or something more . . . profitable." He says the last word as though he can hardly bear the taste of it on his tongue. "Sandee was capable, certainly, but lacked an Englishman's instinct for high quality."

"I should think you'd have the job in hand, with him gone, am I right?"

"Yes, Mister Dunnington told me the board would be making its decision this week, but that there would be little debate at this point, due to . . . recent events."

"Convenient for you, Sandee's death."

Marks looks outraged. "Inspector, I must take issue with your slanderous implication. Do you really think I had anything to do with the poor man's murder?"

Lewis adopts a placating tone. "It's our job to think all manner of things, Mister Marks. Thank you for your time. We'll see ourselves out."

* * *

They are back in the office, discussing Marks's demeanor. Although Lewis is clearly offended by Marks's high-handed bearing, he dismisses the man as a suspect.

"Really, I don't see Marks as sniffing around Iffley at night trying to cut up his competition with a sushi knife, do you? Besides, he has an iron-clad alibi, everyone saw him at work until past midnight."

He catches Hathaway's look. "What? Talk to me, Hathaway."

"Sir, he could have hired out the job, couldn't he? We don't know anything substantive about his background. You can't assume he's above dirty deeds just because of his posh accent."

Lewis rolls his eyes at their role reversal. "I think, Sergeant, I'm the last person likely to make that assumption. But what evidence do we have of anything underhanded?"

"Nothing. That doesn't mean it's not out there."

"Well, let's talk to Davidson again. He should have sobered up a bit by now."

Hathaway glances at the clock. "Erm, Sir . . . it's just . . ."

It takes Lewis a moment to catch on. "Oh, your date with Vicki. Going somewhere nice?"

"I'm not really sure, Sir. All I know is I'm to pick her up in about two hours' time."

"Go ahead, then, get out of here. I can talk to Davidson on me own. He doesn't care much for you, anyway." Then Lewis pauses as Hathaway turns to go. "James, are you . . . taking backup at all?"

Hathaway stops without turning around. "No, Sir. It's a _date_ this time, not part of an investigation. Alright?" Lewis can hear his teeth are clenched.

"Fine, fine, just asking, is all. She's stopped her stalking behaviors, just as she said she would, so what's to worry about?" Lewis finds himself much more relaxed about the idea of Hathaway going out with her. But he adds one more thing before the sergeant leaves.

"Hathaway?"

"_What?_"

"Have a nice night. Don't worry about coming in a bit late tomorrow, okay?"

The younger man leaves without turning around or saying a word.

After Hathaway is gone, Lewis has Davidson brought to an interview room. He joins the suspect promptly, not making him wait.

"I talked to your Mister Marks, and he confirmed what you said about there being a two-way competition for Dunnington's position."

Davidson grunts in satisfaction.

"But I'm not certain you helped yourself by telling us about it. Y'see, Marks couldn't have killed Sandee, several witnesses saw him at work that night long past the hour Sandee was killed."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Well, maybe you're right. Maybe Marks couldn't stand the idea of a Paki like Sandee taking over the management." Lewis carefully hides his distaste for the derogatory term. " Maybe he was afraid his chances weren't too good without a little outside help." He leans over the table. "And _maybe_ he knew of someone who felt the same way about Sandee, someone who could do him a little favor now in exchange for leniency in enforcing work rules later." He stares significantly at Davidson.

It takes the man some time to work through this, despite his relative sobriety.

Davidson stands up explosively, his chair flying backward behind him, and grabs at Lewis's necktie. "That's ridiculous! You _bastard!_"

But Lewis is too quick, and the PC standing motionless at the door springs to life, pinioning Davidson's arms behind him in a smooth, practiced move.

As Davidson stands panting, struggling minimally, Lewis calmly looks up at the PC. "Ta, Kathy. Nice catch." And he leaves.


	8. Chapter 8

Hathaway drives to Vicki's house, parks in the drive, and rings the bell.

"James! Come in, you're exactly on time. Why does that not surprise me?" She busses him lightly, then checks around outside. "Ah, no shadowing officers tonight, I'm glad. I want this to be special tonight. Come on inside and take your coat off. Champagne?"

He enters to a wonderful smell of dinner cooking. Vicki is not wearing her coat, of course; instead she wears a simple, black, jersey-knit dress that shows off her legs, but not too much. Plain black pumps and one black bangle are her only accessories. She looks over James's black jacket and trousers, dark grey shirt, and royal blue tie with appreciation.

She's cooked a delectable meal of grilled salmon and asparagus with a lemon-dill sauce, and uncorked a bottle of Moёt et Chandon. They converse lightly while they eat, learning about each other, though not very much. Hathaway answers vaguely when Vicki asks about his past, and about his reasons for becoming a policeman. She, in turn, provides nothing specific when asked about her family and post-school activities. She looks away at one point, her eyes moist, and James realizes she may be harboring more pain than he thought at first. Sensitive to respecting her privacy, he doesn't push, telling her it's okay if she wants to take her time.

They dine by quiet jazz and candlelight, her eyes shining in the soft glow. Hathaway volunteers to do the washing up, and she beams at him for the offer. She pours them each a brandy, and Hathaway sips his while he works. It is smooth, and tastes very expensive.

When the kitchen has been tidied up, she puts on music with a beat, and they dance, body-to-body. By this time, she has kicked off her shoes and Hathaway has removed his tie and loosened his collar. Her breath is warm on his collarbone where it is exposed at his throat. After the first two numbers, she curls her hand around his neck and pulls his head down to meet her lips. Hathaway has never felt such a gentle but insistent kiss and he gives himself to it completely. He hasn't been this happy in a very long time, and he even manages to ignore the nagging voice in the back of his head that tells him he doesn't deserve this. He _does_ deserve this, he's gone far too long without something like this in his life. The heat from her mouth courses through his veins and he readily complies when she nudges him back onto the settee, her tongue working with his, their hands exploring each other eagerly.

* * *

"Hi, Laura, I'm wondering if you're free again tonight? . . . Fantastic, I'll meet you there at eight? Is that okay? . . . See you then. Bye."

Lewis hangs up the phone and realizes he's grinning foolishly from ear to ear. He tries to get that under control, with moderate success. He enjoys talking to Doctor Hobson; other than talking to Hathaway, he doesn't have many opportunities to engage in normal conversation. Although he's shy by nature, he's also a fairly social creature underneath, and he doesn't like how morose he can get when he's alone for too long a time.

He brings the fish & chips and beer back to the table, managing not to drop any of it, while Laura watches to see if he succeeds.

She cheers when he gets it all safely onto their table. "Bravo, Robbie, well done. With all the time you've spent at Malmaison lately, there may be a position for you in the hospitality industry if this detective thing of yours ever falls through."

"Nice. Eat your food before it goes cold."

For a while they munch in silence, simply enjoying the company of sharing space with each other. After Laura takes her first long sip of beer, she turns businesslike.

"So, what did you want to see me for?"

"Does there have to be a reason?"

"We did this routine last time, Robbie. Just get to the point."

He chuckles. Then inhales. And turns more serious.

"It's Hathaway and his date, Vicki. I can't help having reservations about her, and I can't tell if it's me instincts smelling trouble or something else."

"Something else, meaning . . .?"

"Well, envy, I suppose. There hasn't been a day in me life when I'd qualify for a date with a woman like that. And _now_, well . . ." He breaks off. No way to complete that sentence without saying something that might sound insulting to the good doctor.

"Now the best you can do is a cranky, middle-aged, spinster-pathologist?"

He grins. "Yeah, can't ask for more than that, can I?" Then he becomes a bit worried. "Laura, that's not how I meant it to sound, you know that." He gazes at her fondly. "Fact is, I'm lucky you'll consent to be seen with the likes of me." He brushes his hand over hers. "Really. I enjoy our conversations far more than I'd enjoy a one-on-one with Vicki. With you, I know where I'm at, at least."

"And I 'keep my goods to myself,' right?"

He snorts. "Yeah, I bet you don't even own a fur coat."

She puzzles over that comment. "Fur coat?"

Chuckling, he tells her about the coat and Hathaway's reports of how Vicki would flash him by flinging open her coat out in the winter weather. "That right there would scare me off, any woman who can tolerate that kind of cold, well . . ."

Laura's brow furrows in concern. "You mentioned flashing last time, but I thought you meant she lifted her shirt. You mean, she was wearing this fox fur coat and opened it, wearing nothing underneath?"

"Yeah, that's sort of her trademark. Goes with her name, I suppose." He snorts a little.

"What's her name again? I don't think you told me before."

"Vicki Focks, and no, not spelled like the animal. Or the coat. Kind of funny, though."

"_Vicki Focks_." Laura is now clearly alarmed. "Lewis, where did they go, do you know?"

"No, Hathaway didn't know, only that he was to pick her up at her house. Laura, what is it?"

"Can you call James?"

"Why, what's wrong?"

"_Just call him, would you?_"

Lewis does but there is no answer and it goes to voice mail.

He clicks off the phone, and glances up, concerned. "No answer."

"Come with me back to the house, I need to show you something. Please let me be wrong."

They abandon their drinks and practically run to her house. She powers up the computer, taps a few keys, explaining as she waits for the system to load.

"There's this website by this really angry woman. A fox fur coat is what you could call her logo. I bookmarked it several months ago and had forgotten about it until you mentioned the coat."

She clicks on a bookmarked site.

"THE VICTORIOUS FOX" it reads in big red letters at the top. The background graphic depicts a red-haired woman in a long, fox-fur coat, her head turned away, looking over her far shoulder, so that her face remains unseen.

Lewis reads. "One Woman's Victory in the Quest for Love and Vengeance." He glances at Laura, then looks back at the screen, raising his eyebrows as he works on this, taking in all the banners and sidebars of the page. There are numerous quotations and cartoon drawings about women's superiority over men, women getting well-deserved revenge for the abuse suffered at the hands of men, and complaints about cultural degradation of women in general. A small, animated box shows a woman, her face pixilated to conceal her features, wearing a fox fur coat that she spreads open, revealing her naked body. Then she closes the coat, and the sequence begins again. Over and over.

"Victorious Fox . . . Vicki Focks? There does seem to be a connection. And the coat." Lewis is thoughtful.

Laura impatiently points to a box at one side of the screen. "Look, she has two journals, 'Love' and 'Vengeance.' In 'Love,' she describes how she is in love with 'JH' and how she wants him for herself. She first saw him on 27th October, 2006, while she was at her work at an unnamed hotel. That's when her journal entries start. He appeared out of nowhere, 'statuesque and regal, like Michelangelo's David,' and she fell in love with him. She managed to get a second job, working in the same building where he works. But some time later, she was sacked. She increased her pursuit and says she plans to keep him as a personal servant and sex slave. She claims he loves her too, and describes their sex together. It sounds like total fantasy, numerous entries describe hours and hours of intercourse. And then she says if she can't have him, she will arrange it that they die together, so no one else can have him, either."

Lewis looks skeptical. "It could all be pure fiction. Just a coincidence on the initials. But why does she say they're lovers but then later it seems she hasn't snared him yet?"

"It's a bit schizophrenic, I'd say. Probably them being lovers is her fantasy, and her not having him yet is reality. She may have trouble telling them apart."

Laura notes the concern in Lewis's face and continues. "She also describes how she won him away from his gay lover, RL, an older man. Once JH saw her, he abandoned RL, breaking the older man's heart. RL came to them, asking to be taken in just so he could be near JH, and they let him live in a garden shed. He's a recluse now, never comes out, never is seen, rarely eats. He pines away for JH, the man he can never have. "

The comments visitors have added to the journal tend to be encouraging, urging the writer to keep JH as hers forever, and mocking RL's pain. Lewis shakes his head, not knowing what to say.

Laura clicks further into the site. "Then there's this, the 'Vengeance' journal. This is full of hateful rants against various people who have crossed her. Against most of them, she spews insults and that's all. But she describes two different murders she's planned, to get revenge against people who have thwarted her career plans. One is a person who informed on her, RL again. Not clear if it's the same RL. Because of him, she was unfairly sacked from her job without being given a decent reference, so she's stuck in dead-end positions now and it's all his fault. She's going to lure him to her house and shoot him, then bury him out in the field behind her garden." She checks Lewis's reaction, but he shows no emotion.

The doctor continues. "The other 'Vengeance' plan concerns a supervisor of hers, JS, who intends to sack her because she refuses to have sex with him. She says it's her plan to catch him alone by pretending to consent, and then stab him to death, burning the body afterward to conceal the true cause of death. Oh, there's an update, dated the day after Sandee died. I haven't seen this before."

She clicks on it. All it says is: "Mission accomplished." There are numerous visitor comments, all of the same nature: "You go, girl," "Foxes unite," even "LOL." The responses to the comments make it clear The Victorious Fox does not tolerate people interfering in her plans.

Lewis's concern is growing exponentially. "'JS,' Jay Sandee? What's this 'Gallery' thing here?"

"I don't know, that wasn't there when I looked at this before." She clicks on it. A menu with three choices comes up: JH, RL, JS. Laura picks the first choice. A screen of thumbnail photos appears.

Lewis recognizes them. They are the set of photos Hathaway received by courier. "Oh, God."

The RL choice, as expected, pulls up the set of photos Lewis received. And the JS gallery features photos of Jay Sandee, before and after death, before his body was burned.

Lewis's jaw trembles. "Tory Reynard. Vicki Focks. Victorious Fox. All the same person. _Hathaway was right!_"

His eyes are terrified now. "God, Laura. I've let him go off alone with a killer." He fumbles for his mobile but stops. "I don't even know where to find him. We'll have to trace his mobile. I hope he hasn't turned it off." He puts through the request and orders backup to be standing by.

"Look, I have to go find him. Thanks for your help, you're brilliant. I owe you drinks, okay?" He rushes for the door.

"Robbie, wait!" He glances back but does not slow down. "Robbie! Remember how she plans to kill RL. She means to lure you to her house. Don't go, Robbie! _James is the bait_."

Lewis can only shake his head, confused, panicking, but certain of one thing. "I have to go, Laura. _He's my partner_." He suddenly hugs her close. "I'll take lots of support with me. Don't worry. I'll be fine." Then he kisses her forehead and rushes out the door. All she can do is bite back her tears.


	9. Chapter 9

Their kissing has gone from slow and serious to something lighter and more playful. Hathaway finds her fascinating, she can move from one mood to another seamlessly. Suddenly, she jumps up from the settee, animated and smiling broadly.

"Come here, I want to show you something fun." She goes to the laptop on the desk and flips it open. In a short time, she has powered up a game James recognizes, one where the player creates virtual people and then controls their lives, to some extent, making them learn skills, having them react to people and situations, and constructing gardens, houses, and other buildings for them to live in. She chooses a saved game she's titled "Perfect World," and when it loads, she begins to give him a tour.

"See? This is us, James, married and living in this beautiful house." She clicks on the icon of the female character and he's startled by the resemblance. The character even wears a long fox coat.

"And this is you." She clicks on another icon, and the view centers on a male character eerily identical to Hathaway, but with better-defined muscles. He is clothed in skimpy red underwear and nothing else. "Mmm, you look so good." Her character approaches his, and they kiss and hug for a rather long time. Although Hathaway has a hypnotic fascination for what is happening on the screen, he is able to tear his eyes away and peek at Vicki. She is fixated on the screen, her mouth following the kissing movements as though they were happening to her. The characters suddenly stop, walk to the nearest bedroom, and climb under the covers together, where they engage in vigorous activity identifiable only by the humping of the bedcovers and squeals of delight. When they are done, they go about their daily lives, but always near each other, and frequently stopping what they are doing to kiss. When not wearing the fox coat, "Vicki" is wearing a black dress identical to the one Vicki Focks wears tonight.

"See how you do all the chores for me?" Hathaway has already noticed that "James" picks up all the dishes, makes the bed, and cleans the bathroom. He has also noticed that the décor of the home resembles that of Vicki's real house: colors, fabrics, and furniture are remarkably similar or almost identical in some instances. Where they differ, the computer version is more beautiful.

James struggles to find something to say. He finds the whole thing rather creepy, but can't put into words the reason why. "Do they get to go to the pub at all? I really enjoyed that night out with you, Vicki."

She smiles affectionately, directly into his eyes. "We don't go out. You're not allowed out. The doors are locked and only I can open them." Despite the warmth in her expression, he feels a piercing chill.

Hathaway notices there is a third icon, and he points to it. "Who's this guy?" The picture is quite different from the other two. The background is an angry red, instead of green, and the expression on the man's face is one of fearful despair.

She giggles. "Oh, that's Inspector Lewis. We keep him over here." She moves the screen so the view is on what looks like a small shed in the garden of the couple's home. It has no windows and no door. She clicks a button that makes the walls invisible, and inside this cell stands an aging, unattractive, and unhappy man. Like Hathaway's character, he wears only underwear, but his is grubby-looking. He is standing in a puddle, and green fumes emanate from him.

"Oh, he wet himself again. He does that about once a day. And see how he reeks? He doesn't get a toilet or shower, and the place is so small he has to sleep standing up. He's completely miserable and we only keep him alive by giving him a little food now and then." She is clearly delighted in the discomfort of "Lewis."

"And now that James is here, I have something very special planned for you, Inspector Lewis." She speaks to the screen. "You're going to die."

Hathaway looks at her sharply. She turns to him and smiles brightly. "Don't worry, Sweetheart, it's all perfectly legal here. We'll let him starve, that's all."

She backs up the view so that all three characters can be seen at once. "James" and "Vicki" go happily about their business, getting out of bed to eat and perform other daily necessities but otherwise spending most of their time together under the sheets. Warning notices about Lewis's condition continue to pop up on the screen, but she pays them no heed except for giggling at the one that warns he is about to die of starvation.

Hathaway cannot bear to watch. Recognizing his feelings are irrational—_it's only a computer game, man_—he wants more than anything to help the man, break him out of his prison, feed him, clean him up, let him have a comfortable night's sleep. It doesn't matter much that it's supposed to be Lewis; the joy Vicki takes in imposing such gratuitous cruelty, regardless of it being merely virtual cruelty, eats at his stomach like acid. It's taking "Lewis" a long time to die.

After what seems like hours, he can bear it no longer. "Vicki, stop it. What do you want from me?"

She seems intrigued by his pity. "I won't stop it. I've been looking forward to this for a long time." She watches the screen, fascinated. Then a smile breaks out on her face. "Oh, he's finally going! Look!"

Hathaway can't help himself. In morbid thrall, he stares as "Lewis" suddenly sinks to his knees, cries out, and throws his arm up as though trying to grasp at his life as it leaves him. He collapses on the floor, curled up in a fetal position. Vicki giggles and James discreetly dabs at his eyes as a black cloud envelops the corpse and the Grim Reaper appears, waving its scythe over the dead man. A shimmering green covers the body and it rises up, now a transparent ghost, and the Reaper takes it away. The third icon disappears, and "James" and "Vicki" are now sole inhabitants of their world.

Hathaway realizes Vicki has been staring at him, her eyes shining. He glances in her direction and notices with a shock that she has bunched up her skirt and is unabashedly masturbating herself through her panties. She sees that he's aware of what she's doing, and her grin widens.

"That made me so hot for you, mmm. Take me now, James!" She grabs him with her free hand and pulls him in suddenly, between her legs, rubbing her crotch hard against his.

"_No!_ God, that was awful!" He tries to pull away, but she has her legs locked around him. She is alarmingly strong. "Vicki, please let me go. I want to leave now. I feel like I'm going to be sick."

Her face darkens. "You can't leave. You're mine now, just like on the computer. I was hoping you'd cooperate, but I'm prepared in case you don't."

James doesn't know what she means, but he's had enough. Without a word, he roughly shoves her legs off him, not sparing any strength. He grabs his jacket and strides to the front door, fumbling for his car keys and mobile on the way; he will need them both. He tries to turn the knob. It does not move. There is no button for the lock on the inside; instead, there is a keyhole. And his pockets are empty.

"You can't get out that way, Sweetheart. Even if you could, you wouldn't get far. It's extremely dark out here at night. There isn't another inhabitant for miles."

"What have you done with my keys and phone?" Hathaway is angry now. _What is she playing at?_ He's certain that, as much as he likes her, he does _not_ like her games.

She grins. "I told you my brothers taught me some useful skills. Picking pockets is another one of those. You won't need those things any more, James, you're with me now."

He glances around the room, looking for a way out, panic starting to mount.

Her brow furrows in concern. "If you're going to try to run out on me, I'll have to insist on taking some precautions."

She opens a small drawer in the desk and takes something out. Hathaway cannot see what it is. She turns and tosses a pair of handcuffs at his head, which he instinctively catches. "Put these on your wrists, please."

He is about to decline her command when he notices she is holding something else: a small, silver Beretta. It is pointed at him. Her hand is very steady. She cocks her eyebrows. "Pretty please, Sweetheart?"

* * *

_This chapter is dedicated to Bob Bobbo, loyal Sim who endured great suffering  
and sacrifice __in the name of fic research. Bob now lives in a huge house in  
__Sunset Valley, __with views of the ocean and forest and two full bathrooms. He understands  
__what happened to him in that tiny shed was merely __a nightmare.  
He is happy, clean, comfortable, well-fed, and he hopes to find a nice girl and marry soon.  
Thank you, Bob!_


	10. Chapter 10

Taking a deep breath, Lewis knocks on the door of the remote cottage. He appears to be alone, but concealed in the dark hedgerows and behind the garden walls, more than a dozen police officers hide, many of them firearms officers. Chief Superintendent Innocent waits in her car at the far end of the drive, well out of sight but in full, two-way communication with the officer in charge, the tactical support superintendent. The entire operation is coordinated by mobile, rather than police radio.

Inside the cottage, Vicki grins at Hathaway, one-sided, slow and sly, when she hears the knocking. "This will be your lover-boy, won't it, come to try to save you, I think. Perfect."

Hathaway does not answer. He cannot answer, being bound to the heavy bedframe and having his mouth sealed by a strip of packing tape. "Don't worry, Sweetheart. In a few minutes, he won't bother us anymore. Then I can untie you. But you have to promise to behave." She smiles bewitchingly, then turns and disappears around the corner, heading down the stairs to the ground floor, and to the door where Lewis is again knocking, harder this time.

"Vicki? It's Inspector Lewis, I know you're expecting me. Will you let me in so we can talk about this?"

The door opens suddenly, but it is nearly as dark inside as out, and Lewis can only assume the person at the door is Vicki Focks. "Vicki?" He strains to see in the dark.

"Inspector Lewis. As you guessed, I've been expecting you. Come inside." He notices she scans the cottage grounds as she speaks. He is confident she sees nothing amiss.

Lewis had not intended to enter the cottage. But then, he did not expect to find her pointing a small firearm at him, taking the decision out of his hands. He swallows and steps inside, unable to signal his backup. She shuts the door behind him, locking it with a key that she pockets.

"I'm so glad you came, Inspector. It seems your Sergeant is absolutely attached to you. Perhaps you can talk some sense into him, before I kill you. If you can't, you both will die. Please keep your hands up where I can see them."

She directs him up the stairs to where James is chained by both hands to the bed. He looks miserable.

"Evening, Sergeant." Lewis tries to imbue his expression with confidence. _We'll get out of this, I always did with Morse._

"Put these on." She pulls another pair of handcuffs from the nightstand, and tosses them to Lewis. With the gun pointed at his heart, he has no choice but to comply.

"Now, Inspector, tell James why he should leave you and make me the perfect husband."

Lewis treads carefully, praying that Hathaway understands what he's doing. "He's already left me, Vicki. He dumped me the night after your first date, called me up at bloody two in the morning to tell me it was over between him and me." He looks at her, managing to conjure tears in his eyes. "I laid awake all night, cursing you, you and your bloody coat. And then I had to go into the office and work with him that day. Had to pretend nothing was wrong so me colleagues wouldn't start talking." His eyes snap to Hathaway. "You broke my heart y'know, James, y'bastard."

At first, her eyes gleam as she looks from one man to the other. But then they go dark and flat. "You're faking. You two are as close as ever, aren't you?"

Lewis swallows hard, realizing they can't hope to simply fool her.

"I'll take care of you, first, Inspector, since you're _not_ heartbroken and therefore unlikely to kill yourself. Then James can make up his own mind, without your overbearing influence."

She cocks the gun and comes a little closer, staying out of arms' reach. Lewis starts to back around, putting distance between himself and Hathaway and trying to draw her in front of the window. If she can be seen in the window, it's possible one of the marksmen might get in a shot after they hear her gun go off, saving Hathaway.

He spares a glance at his sergeant. Hathaway is shaking his head, _no, no, no_. Lewis wills him to be strong and prays: _At least, let him get out of this alive._

Vicki's voice cuts into his thoughts, sharp and commanding. "Stop moving, Inspector. You're planning something and I won't let it happen."

Lewis freezes. Although he's moved her closer, she is not in front of the window. _He is_. He inhales deeply.

"Good bye, Inspector."

Lewis makes a diving leap for the window as she fires. There is an explosion of glass and gunpowder as Lewis's body breaks through at the same instant she fires. She flies to the window intent on finishing him if necessary, and as she appears in silhouette there, a volley of gunfire rips loose from the hedgerow on that side of the cottage. Hathaway can see the spray of blood and viscera as her body is flung backward. She falls to the floor in a bloody tangle.

* * *

By the time the tactical support superintendent finds him, Hathaway is rigid, staring blankly. The super orders one of his officers to cut the handcuffs and he peels the tape from Hathaway's mouth. "James? You okay?"

Hathaway stares at the gore on the wall above Vicki's body. He can't make himself look directly at her. Then his eyes fall on the destroyed window, a few shards of glass still clinging to the broken frame.

Without taking his eyes away, he chokes out his fear. "Inspector Lewis . . . is he . . .?"

The officer snaps on his two-way. "Do we have a report on Lewis?"

The answer takes hours to come, it seems to James.

"He's alive, Sir. That's all so far."

James closes his eyes and breaths a prayer of relief and gratitude.


	11. Chapter 11

When at last he is cut free of the handcuffs, Hathaway hurries down the stairs. The front door stands open, its frame broken from the forced entry. The ground floor of the house is eerily empty of police officers. Hathaway soon discovers they are almost all out in the garden, in a group near where the ambulance personnel are working beneath the broken window. Before he can approach, a hand falls on his arm.

"Hathaway, are you alright? James?"

He turns, facing his Chief Superintendent. "I'm fine, yeah. How's Inspector Lewis?" He starts again to head in that direction, but she pulls him back.

"You'd better stay out of their way. It's hard to get back in there, lots of rose bushes . . ." Her eyes are better indicators of his condition than her words. Hathaway yanks his arm free.

"Ma'am, if he's . . . I need to be with him." He sees her look of reproach. "With all due respect, Ma'am." He pivots and heads resolutely to the group of scurrying med techs. One of them sees Hathaway approaching, and guides him in past the thornier shrubs to where they are working on the body lying face-up on a heavy blanket on the ground.

Lewis looks very pale: eyes closed, mouth slightly open. They've removed most of his clothing, and although much of him is covered in a red blanket, the parts that do show reveal bloody gashes, mostly in his arms and knees, some of them apparently quite deep. One of the workers moves the blanket to one side of Lewis's torso and James can see a blown-out, ragged hole about the size of a golf ball in his belly to the right of his navel. There is a great deal of blood everywhere. His hair is wet with it.

The worker who guided Hathaway to Lewis's side bends down and mutters into Lewis's ear. The older man's eyes flutter then as he tries to focus. The worker pushes Hathaway toward his boss. "Talk to him, tell him you're here. Call him by name. It'll help."

"Sir? Inspector Lewis? It's Hathaway. Can you hear me, Sir?"

Lewis's eyes still lack focus, but one corner of his mouth turns up slightly. "Hathaway?" Barely a whisper.

"Yes, Inspector, I'm here. It's over, everything will be alright. Just be sure you can hear my voice, okay? Can you hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear ya. You okay, Sergeant?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. The, erm . . . the marksmen . . . They got her. She never hurt me."

"James? Call Laura, tell her I'm okay, would you? She'll be worried."

Hathaway swallows hard. "I'll call her, Sir, I promise." He does _not_ promise to tell her any lies.

The crew chief bends to Lewis's other ear. "We're going to put you under now, Inspector, understand? Don't worry, you won't feel anything. It'll be like falling asleep, okay?"

"'Kay." He swallows. "Hathaway? You still here?"

"Yeah, right here, Sir. I'll stay with you, as long as they let me."

"James . . . I'm sorry . . ."

His features relax as the sedative takes effect. The crew chief addresses Hathaway. "We'll be a little while packing him up, if there's anything you need to get or do before we go, take care of it now. You'll be riding with us, yeah?"

"Yes, definitely, thanks." He reaches for his mobile to call Hobson, then stops midway. His keys and mobile, of course, are missing. _What did she do with them?_ A bit late to ask her. Then he sees Hobson's familiar BMW pulling up in front of the house. Hathaway breaks into a trot as he nears, the doctor fairly leaping from the car when she sees him approach.

"James! How is he?" She doesn't need to explain who "he" is.

"They're packing him up over there. I don't know. I spoke to him, but there's so much blood. He's out now. But go see him."

She sprints toward the ambulance as Hathaway goes inside to see if he can find his things. He recreates the events of the evening in his head, trying to figure when she would have lifted them and where she would have unobtrusively deposited them for later collection. _Of course! When I was washing up_. She wouldn't have needed much in the way of pickpocket skills to nick his things from his jacket, he had taken it off by then, and hung it over the back of the desk chair. He easily finds both missing items in a desk drawer, reclaims them, and heads back out toward the ambulance. He meets Doctor Hobson on the way, her eyes reddened.

"Doctor, how did you know where to come, anyway?"

She frowns a little. "I was told, of course." Noting his confusion, she explains. "I'm here to take care of a dead body." She takes a breath, and her eyes say the rest. _Thank God it's not his._

"Of course. Sorry. Look, I'll call you if I know anything before you get free, I promise." Hathaway feels better knowing he will be able to fulfill his promise to his boss.

* * *

The ride to the Radcliffe seems to take forever. Hathaway is feeling somewhat nauseous from sitting sideways in the back of the ambulance. The stress of the evening, the champagne, and the brandy aren't helping him, either. But the state of his stomach seems relatively unimportant, and he manages to keep himself together for the length of the trip.

He has to find a place to wait as soon as they arrive, Lewis being whisked off to the surgical theatre immediately. Hathaway finds out where he can smoke and begins to empty out his packet, one cigarette at a time. He paces relentlessly. All he can think about is how easily fooled he was. He accepted Vicki's story without question, and now Lewis was paying the price for his lack of forethought. He had wanted her attention so badly, he ignored not only Lewis's common sense but his own as well. Every step Hathaway takes as he paces is a lash on his back.

After some time, a doctor emerges from the theatre, scanning the waiting area. Hathaway is over in a flash, chewing his lower lip nervously.

"Doctor, any word?"

"We're closing him now. I was merely assisting, Doctor Renfrew will give you the complete report in about an hour or so. He's stable and doing as well as can be expected for now."

"Is there anything I can do, any way I can help him?"

The doctor looks Hathaway up and down. "What blood type are you? He lost a lot of blood. If you match, and could spare a pint . . .?"

Lying on his back with a needle in his arm incongruously makes Hathaway feel that he's doing something active, something affirmative to help Lewis. He was happy to find his blood sufficiently matched that of his boss and that he did not have any of the disqualifying factors. And it gives him something to do besides pace purposelessly. Truly relaxed for the first time that night, he even dozes a little as the precious fluid drains.

It is hours before he is allowed to see his boss. Lying in his standard-issue gown, unconscious in the hospital bed, Lewis appears old and small. His right arm is in a cast, his face and exposed left arm adorned with numerous sticking plasters. His hair is stiff with dried blood. The doctor steps forward to explain.

"He's fractured his right humerus and clavicle—upper arm and collar bone—most likely due to landing there when he fell through the window. He also has numerous lacerations on his scalp and extremities from the window glass, the worst being on his arms, but no major blood vessels or nerves were severed."

The doctor checks to ensure Hathaway is keeping up, and continues. "None of these injuries is very serious, though they will certainly cause him a fair amount of pain in the immediate future. More worrying, however, is the harm from the bullet. The shot entered his backside just above his pelvis and passed through his abdominal cavity, exiting through his abdomen in front. We had to repair his bowel in several places, it was considerably damaged. Fortunately, the bullet missed his liver. The surgery went as expected, but only time will tell if it will be without complications. And we'll have to watch closely for infection. All I can tell you for certain now is that he's stable. Depending on how this develops, he may be here for a short time, but if there are any complications he could be in for a much longer stay, I'm afraid. It's up to him now."

The doctor strides away, having other patients to deal with. But the nurse remains, and she sees the despair in Hathaway's face. She touches his arm, her expression kind. "It won't be long before he wakes up. Maybe you'd like to stay? He'll hear you talking to him even before he wakes."

The words are balm for the troubled man, and he seeks further reassurance from her. "Can I ask you, Ma'am . . . how likely is it that he'll be okay?"

"Well, officially it will take some time before we can be certain he's free from the possibility of serious complications. But _un_officially . . ." She leans close to his ear. "I've been doing this job a long time, Sergeant, and one thing I've noticed is that if the patient wakes up from surgery with a smile on his face, he's almost certain to be fine in a short time. If he doesn't, well, he can still pull through, so don't give up either way."

The nurse goes out of the room and Hathaway sits next to Lewis in the dark, his hand on the older man's shoulder. The two men are alone now. Golden light streaks the sky outside and Hathaway can begin to see his boss's face in the growing dawn. He sits stiffly on the chair next to the bed, perching on the edge of the seat, elbows on knees, chin resting on his other hand. He studies the expressionless visage.

"Sir?" Whispered. There is no response, as he expected. As he hoped, really. He does not want Lewis to consciously hear what he has to say.

"You were right, as you know. You won't ever say it, but I'm giving you the satisfaction anyway. I need to listen to you more. I've spent most of my life not listening to people who didn't agree with me, and it's a hard habit to break." He exhales, staring at the inert figure.

"I haven't always been easy to work with. Nor have you, to be honest, Sir. But I _respect_ you. I didn't think I would when I first met you. And I get the feeling that you respect me." He's studying the ceiling now. "It's not something I'm used to."

His confession shifts into atonement. "I'm sorry I underestimated you that first day. People tend to do that with you, it's one of your strengths when you're dealing with suspects. And I'm sorry I so badly misjudged Vicki. I wanted her to be genuine so much I disregarded all the signs that she wasn't. It's because of my mistake you're lying here like this." He bows his head, touching his brow to the bedsheet. "Forgive me."

And last, supplication. "Sir, please recover from this. Please go back to being funny and cynical and insightful and enthusiastic and Geordie and wise and . . . _you_. I need you to be _you_, Sir."

* * *

Chief Superintendent Innocent finds Hathaway in that position when she arrives an hour later. He is asleep, head on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on Lewis's arm. The sound of the door closing behind her wakes him, and he starts, looking around as it takes him a moment to remember where he is, and why.

He glances quickly at Lewis, but it is immediately apparent the man has not moved, and is not awake.

Innocent is equally concerned for both her detectives. After studying Lewis a moment, she comes closer to Hathaway, worry knitting her brow.

"James, are you alright? Have you been here all night?"

He blinks at the questions. "Where else would I be?"

She extracts from him the information regarding Lewis's condition, folds her arms across her chest, and waits, standing next to the chair after rejecting James's offer to let her sit.

After a while, she speaks. "I've released Davidson. Lewis told me of his suspicions regarding Vicki Focks, and after the events at her house, I assumed Lewis was right about all of it." She checks James out of the corner of her eye. If she thought this would trigger an explanation of what happened inside the cottage, she is disappointed. Hathaway does not reply.

She begins to shift on her feet, restless and uncomfortable. After several minutes of this, she uncrosses her arms and heads for the door. "Hathaway, I have to use the ladies', I'll be back in a minute. If he wakes up while I'm gone, I'll know for certain that you two are teamed against me."

Hathaway snorts a little at that. As the door clicks shut, he hears a quiet groan from the bed. Almost afraid to look, he peeks down at his superior officer. Blue eyes gaze back at him, weary as the world.

"Sir?" There is no response. "Welcome back." Hathaway waits, feeling awkward.

Lewis clears his throat and licks his lips, trying to work saliva through his dry mouth. "Hathaway?" More of a croak than anything else. His eyes are flat and his mouth expressionless.

"Yes, Sir, it's me." _Oh, God, he's not smiling_. Hathaway feels a pit where his stomach should be.

"I knew you'd be here. Even before I woke. I felt it in me blood." He cracks a crooked grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "What there is left of it. Thanks, James."

Hathaway smiles broadly in relief. "Funny you should put it that way, Sir. There's something you should know about your blood."

Before he can speak, Innocent re-enters the room, sees Lewis is awake, and stops in her tracks. She shakes her head in mock exasperation, poorly concealing her pleasure. "I might have known."

The two partners reflexively grin, conspiratorially.


	12. Chapter 12

More than a week later, three friends gather for a pint at one of their favorite haunts, the first time they've all been together since that frightful night. The oldest of them wears a sling supporting his right arm, and numerous healed-over lacerations line his face and hands. They joke good-naturedly about having a round of darts. And him being the dartboard. After the first pint has been consumed, the mood turns a bit more thoughtful.

"So, this website, The Victorious Fox, has been taken down and I'll never get to see it, is that what you're saying, Doctor?"

Before she can answer, Lewis interrupts. "It's just as well, Hathaway, it would give you nightmares. I know it has done for me."

Hathaway gauges the seriousness of Lewis's tone. The Inspector has been out on medical leave, and Hathaway has been kept busy assisting the team Innocent assigned to the file after removing Hathaway as main detective on the case. The two men have not had a real chance to come to terms with what happened. Hathaway doesn't especially want to talk to Lewis about the case, but he hasn't had the ability to assess how much Lewis blames him for the outcome.

"Maybe it's your pain medication giving you nightmares, Sir. You must still be on a rather heavy dosage."

Lewis notices him eying the sling. They both know Lewis also wears a brace underneath his shirt, protecting his fractured arm.

"Not as big a dose as you'd think, Hathaway. Turns out, after working with you all these years, I have a pretty high tolerance for a pain in the arse."

Hathaway grins at the ribbing, grateful Lewis is keeping the mood light.

The inspector has to ask something about which he has been curious, ever since that night.

"So . . . you managed to escape unscathed?"

Hathaway snorts a little. "Physically, yes."

Hobson, who saw the woman's mangled body, knows what he means, at least in part. Lewis, who saw Hathaway's desolate face that night as he waited helplessly, chained to the madwoman's bed, knows at least another part of his meaning.

Lewis averts his eyes, regretting the wording of his question. "Yeah, sorry about the rest."

Hobson attempts to warm up the mood a little. "So, Robbie, are you really a blood brother to James now?"

He smiles at that. "That's what I'm told. Not that I had a choice in the matter." He pretends to frown. "But I didn't pinky swear or anything, y'know."

Hathaway grins. "Still counts, even without the pinky swear. It won't hold up in court, but it's still binding. Like being jinxed."

They are back to laughing now. Then Lewis fixes Hobson's gaze with some intensity. "Hey, Laura, I've been wondering. What's a nice girl like you doing bookmarking a website like that, anyway?"

Hathaway's eyes flick over to her. He wants to know, too.

"Ah, I was wondering when you'd ask me that." She gives him an evil smile. "What makes you so certain it's not _my_ website?"

"It's never your website!" Lewis is sure of that much. "You don't even have red hair!"

She chuckles at that. "Ah, yes. Nor a coat like that, as I believe you've already figured out. No, it's quite an innocent explanation. One of my seminar students did a project on female murderers. She researched proposed murder methods described in women's online journals and blogs and then explained how one would forensically discover what had happened. I had to check the websites in order to grade the student's work. I bookmarked all of them, as a matter of fact, but had gotten rid of most of them when the term was over. This one I kept because of the similarity of the victims' initials to two certain friends of mine."

Lewis furrows his brow. "Were you going to tell us about it, or just wait to see what developed?"

She's shrugs helplessly. "I had intended to tell you, but frankly, I forgot about it. And I didn't think it was anything more than coincidence until you told me about the coat and all, Robbie." She studies Hathaway with concern. "I'm sorry your date and The Victorious Fox turned out to be the same person, James. Sounds like you nearly had yourself a nice girlfriend."

James snorts. "Yeah, well, nearly. Story of my life." But he tosses off his bitterness, giving Lewis a quirky grin. "That's what I get for breaking up with you, I suppose. You should have heard him, Laura. Going on about how I broke his heart. I thought he was going to cry."

Lewis narrows his eyes, not willing to be outdone. "_Heart?_ Is that what you thought I said, Sergeant? Me _arm_ is what ya broke. You really ought to listen to me more, y'know? Don't have to _say_ anything, just listen."

Hathaway lays a hand gently—_very_ gently—on Lewis's shoulder. "I will, Sir, I promise."


End file.
